God Killer
by PineappleApproves
Summary: 13 years have passed since the End War. In the uninhabited Lontimar system, a mining contractor by the name of Marcus Kane discovers a lost protoss with little memory of himself. He takes it back to the reclaimed world of Aiur, back to a society that is not kind to the imperfect. This is the story of a crippled protoss who wished to be someone greater.
1. Chapter 1

**_I had this story sitting idle in my head ever since Legacy of the Void came out, and I've finally decided to start writing it out. Also, just to clear things up-despite what you might've inferred from the title, this story has nothing to do with Amon. That ship has sailed._**

 ** _Just as a disclaimer: I have not read any of the books or comics. If something I've written is inaccurate to canon... whoops._**

 _ **Any feedback is welcomed. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy.**_

* * *

"Enemy shields at 20 percent," the adjutant announced. The holographic board before him relayed the real-time happenings of the battle, but he wanted to see it for himself. Turning away, he walked to the window.

"Enemy shields at 15 percent." The fleet, interspersed with protoss and terran ships, fanned around the lone flagship. Beams and missiles were aimed together at the same thing. The flagship was under all that fire. No wonder its shields were dropping so quickly. It was only a matter of time now.

"Enemy shields at eight percent." Suddenly the adjutant added, "Commander, incoming transmission from the flagship."

Intrigued, he turned as the display screen rose up. Static flickered across the holographic surface for a second before the unsteady image of a protoss appeared. His brilliant red eyes burned through the screen, staring down the man who gazed calmly back.

"Human," came the biting voice in his mind from the protoss.

"Enemy shields at five percent."

"Ga'edus," Jim Raynor greeted in return. He looked back at the flagship, still at the focal point of all that firepower. "Feeling cozy over there?"

"This battle has been _meaningless_ ," Ga'edus hissed. "Your fights bear no fruit, ape. You know this."

"Enemy shields at two percent."

"Raynor," Ga'edus continued. "You cannot kill me. I am that which has no end. _I am a god!"_

Finally, Raynor's eyes returned to the screen—to the protoss. "Buddy," he said. "You ain't no god."

"Enemy shields eliminated."

Ga'edus roared in fury as his image dropped from the screen. Static returned. Raynor looked back out to the battle just as the barrage began ripping through the flagship. Like teeth, the projectiles chewed through the vessel and tore it apart.

Someone joined him at his side. "Is it over?" Matt Horner asked, also watching the ship disintegrate under the firepower.

"Not sure," Raynor replied. "Adjutant, establish contact with The Divine. Get me the executor on board." No sooner had the connection been established, the projection of a blue-eyed protoss appeared. "Artanis. Tell me you've got good news."

"I have just received word from Selendis and her templars," Artanis answered. "Their mission was successful."

Raynor finally exhaled a breath that felt like it had been held for a long time. "So he's gone," he ventured. "For good this time?"

"Yes. His restoration machine is destroyed, as is he." Artanis then added, "I thank you, Captain Raynor. Your help was vital in securing this victory."

"I'm just glad this sector has one less maniac to worry about."

* * *

 _Hyperion—several days later_

The jukebox in the cantina was broken. _Again_. Swann would need to take another look at it. The thing was honestly a piece of garbage, but Raynor was just too damn nostalgic to throw it out. Besides, this was one of the last of its kind that wasn't rusting in pieces in some junkyard or selling for a fortune and a half.

The thick bottom of the glass tumbler slammed heavily against the tabletop. Raynor took the bottle of bourbon by the neck and poured himself another generous glass. The battle from just a few days prior replayed in his head. He thought of the red eyes that had stared at him through the screen. There wasn't much on a protoss's face except for wrinkles and a pair of eyes, but it had somehow conveyed so much emotion. So much hate. Raynor'd felt it when Ga'edus had infiltrated his mind to spit out his last words.

Seems like humans weren't the only ones capable of producing assholes.

Raynor looked up when he heard the scraping of a chair's legs. Horner had pulled up a seat next to him and settled down. "It's done. Seems almost surreal," the young man noted.

"What? You thought he'd be around for a bit longer?"

"It's a damn good thing he's not," Horner said. "It's just… when you put things into perspective. This guy—protoss, was, up until a few days ago, one of humanity's biggest threats. I mean, he wiped out planets. And then there was yesterday… I don't know. It almost felt too easy."

"Ga'edus got too overconfident," Raynor replied, lifting the tumbler and swirling the ice within. "He had that thing—the God Machine."

"I read the report on that. Real scary tech."

"It gave him all the chances he could ask for. But a crutch is a crutch, Matt, and he started leaning too heavily on it."

"But the protoss have it now. You think they'll…" Horner let his question trail off.

Raynor emptied the tumbler again. "Artanis told me his people condemn that sort of machine. They're not too happy about one of their own trying to play god. The templars broke it down completely, and got rid of anything that might've let someone reverse-engineer it." He half expected Horner to question his trust in Artanis's word. Then again, Raynor's attitude towards the protoss wasn't lost on the young man.

"So he really was a black sheep," Horner said. "Though I suppose if all protoss had been like him, we'd be in real trouble." The last thing humanity needed was an entire race of individuals with superiority complexes and an unbending desire to destroy anything they considered inferior. "Seems like we've seen too many of these minds cropping up around us. Ga'edus, Meng—." He caught himself a second too late.

Raynor didn't react. His eyes bore holes into his warped reflection on the bourbon bottle. Quickly, the uneasy tension was dispelled as he took the bottle.

"I've got the Hyperion en route to the Har-Kion Belt," Horner piped up. "There's a refueling station there. After that, we can go back to doing what we always do."

"Sounds like a plan, Matt."

* * *

 _Khalai mother ship—several days later_

Artanis could feel their restlessness, and it was spreading onto him like a disease. Despite the victory won, there was only unease. The stillness that peace granted them only made them quietly reflect on the monster they had all faced—one of them. One of the firstborn.

The Twilight Council had called a meeting upon The Divine, one of the Khalai's mother ships. There was much to discuss, and there was so, so much work to be done. Ga'edus had left behind smoking ruin in his wake, even among the protoss. First the loss of Aiur, and now this. Artanis could almost feel the physical weight of it all burdening his shoulders.

"Executor."

It was a blessed distraction from his thoughts. Artanis stopped and turned. Selendis approached him, her eyes examining him carefully. "I sense your distress, Executor," she said. "And I share in it. But our people are strong. We will endure, rebuild."

"I do not doubt our strength," Artanis replied as they continued walking towards the council room. "But these tests of our will—one tragedy after another—grow tiring."

"I know."

The doors to the council room slid open before them. Within, judicators stood gathered around a long, ovular table. Those who were unable to be physically present were represented by holographic likenesses.

"Executor Artanis," Praetor Muadun greeted. Artanis felt the Praetor's mood change when he looked to his companion. "Only the judicators are allowed to attend this council."

"Selendis is with me," Artanis said. "I permit her presence here."

Praetor Muadun paused. "Very well." He turned back to the table as Artanis and Selendis assumed their spots. "Then council will begin. We are here to discuss the recent threat that has been neutralized—Ga'edus. Brothers, I know the very thought of him troubles us all. He was a murderer, slaying without honor. He sullied the nobility of the firstborn. He toyed with powers not his in order to extend his reign and spill more blood. And, most concerning of all, he had once been one of us—a member of the judicator caste. Respected as a skilled warrior and leader." For a beat, there was silence as each individual in the room quietly processed the praetor's words. "Many of us once even predicted his swift ascension within the Twilight Council.

"But I have not gathered you here merely to reconfirm our fears. We are here to learn from this calamity, discuss the character of Ga'edus, and ensure that one such as he does not rise again."

"You should have let the praetor bar me from sitting in," Selendis mumbled privately to Artanis.

"Learn from these discussions, Selendis. It will—."

"Executor Artanis." His eyes flickered up to Muadun. "You met Ga'edus in battle. What could you glean from him?"

Artanis took a moment to deliberate. Ga'edus had been… well, frightening in many ways. "I could not feel him through the Khala as I am able to with anyone else. His nerve cord was intact, but he was able to limit any connection to his mind."

"His psionic abilities were unmatched," another judicator chimed in. "Along with influencing the Khala's connection within him, he was able to manipulate matter at will. Face-to-face combat was always a losing battle. We lost many good templars to him."

So many warriors had met their end that way. It had been Artanis's plan to corner Ga'edus on a leveled playing field and meet in a battle of spacecraft. That was what finally did him in.

"Not only that," Artanis furthered. "In the slim moments I could share in his thoughts, I saw a man so sure of himself that it was chilling. He truly believed that what he was doing was objectively right."

"Ga'edus was born into a bubble of privilege," Praetor Muadun said. "Very few obstacles, extensive education, and none to refuse him. Thus he became someone wholly dangerous—a man who believed he could do no wrong."

"Enough of this psychological examination," an impatient judicator cut in. "His inner bearings are not what concerns us the most, Praetor. It was his machine!" Artanis could feel agreement circulate around the table. "How did he manage to create such a thing?"

"He was influential," another chimed in, "and amassed a great following. No doubt some of those were talented engineers that were carefully instructed to build such a mechanism."

"Ga'edus was obsessed with conquest and power," Artanis agreed. "To him, there was no power greater than those of the deities."

"It is a curse, not power," Muadun said. "And our people are better off with such a thing dispelled from this existence. High Templar Selendis." Eyes turned to the one at Artanis's side. "On behalf of the Twilight Council, and the firstborn, I commend your valiant deed in successfully destroying Ga'edus's machine before he had the chance to use it once more."

Selendis dipped her head. "It was an honor, Praetor."

Muadun looked back to the gathered. "Now we must discuss the aftermath of this storm," he told the judicators. "We need to rebuild the Khalai forces and, at the same time, hunt down the remaining loyalists to Ga'edus. This threat must be purged once and for all."

"And quickly," a judicator said. "The time to retake Aiur from the Swarm is fast approaching."

Artanis blinked. Yes, the judicator was right. He could feel it—they all could. The delay to reclaim their home world could stretch no longer. He just wondered if they would be ready by then.

The council continued for another two hours. The topic was brought up that Ga'edus's actions would have tarnished the protoss's standing with the terrans, though the judicators were not too concerned by it. Finally, the council was dismissed. Members of the room dispersed, heading off to be teleported back onto their own ships.

Artanis and Selendis made for the bridge. As they walked through The Divine's corridor, Artanis noticed someone familiar standing close to the wall. It was one of the admirals who flew under his fleet. Her admiral's uniform bore a faint resemblance to the standard with its white robes and gold plating, though it had been altered with a customized touch. One arm was bare, decorated with several gold bands. Thin, gold chains draped web-like over the lower half of her face.

"Admiral Ariadis," he addressed. The admiral looked up from the holographic screen that was projected from her gauntlet. "You flew estimably in battle the other day. I am fortunate to have you amongst my fleet."

"Executor, I thank you," Ariadis replied, giving her gauntlet a tap. The screen disappeared. "Praise Tassadar for this victory."

"Indeed." Artanis dismissed the admiral and continued to the bridge. He could feel amusement glimmer in Selendis. "Is there something you wish to say?" he prompted.

"I've not seen you go out of your way to praise someone like that," Selendis said, a hint of mirth in her voice. "Is there something special about this Ariadis, Executor?"

"I think it important to recognize the effort of all my admirals," Artanis responded. "My strength is nothing without theirs."

"Quite the diplomatic answer."

* * *

 _2519—13 years after the End War; 15 years after the death of Ga'edus_

Marcus let go of his stretch with a loud, satisfied grunt. He glanced over at his partner, but Jamie sat at the controls with a pair of headphones nestled over his ears. His feet were propped up on the panel, and his fingers scrabbled quickly over the controller in his hands as he concentrated on the small monitor in the corner. Well, maybe it was for the better. Jamie would've complained about his loud grunts like he always did.

It was just the two of them in this ship. That meant more labor on each of them, but it also meant less division of profits. Besides, he had known Jamie since forever, and there was no one else he'd rather be working with. They were mining contractors, closing deals with employers to gather minerals, vespine gas, and other resources from far-off worlds. Most of the clients were companies that were small or privately owned. They, like all businesses, needed minerals. Contractors such as Marcus came at a fraction of the cost of commercial miners, but Marcus liked to think he was just as good as them… in customer service, anyway.

Leaning back, he watched the stars move outside the window and thought back to the representative his latest client had sent to confirm the contract. She had been a real babe, and wild in bed as he had discovered later that night.

He suddenly remembered that he wasn't alone in the ship. Marcus sat up, clearing his throat. He glanced out the window again and sighed. Restlessly, he checked the map. It would take another few hours to reach the system where their target planet was. How he wished the ship's warp hadn't been so limited. He was always so tempted to take out a loan and invest it in better warping capabilities, but his wonderful partner always shot the idea down. According to him, Jamie was the voice of reason between the two; the only reason they were still up and at their trade. Of course. He was the one with the ring on his finger— _so_ mature and responsible. Yet, without Marcus, he'd be a real boring asshat. That was something Jamie never cared to admit, but it was the truth.

 _"Fuck!"_ Jamie suddenly boomed. He made to throw the controller, but kept it clenched in his hands. It was their only one, after all. The monitor turned red as it showed a death screen. "Piece of shit, one-hit-kill bullshit!"

"Nice going, Jay," Marcus drawled.

"Hey, fuck off with you!" Jamie snapped back. Video games always had a way of turning him into a real grouch.

"Calm your tits, man."

Jamie only grunted and resumed his game. "Where're you going?" he asked as Marcus stood.

"Gonna go take a shit on your pillow," Marcus joked.

"Make it a steamy one," Jamie replied without missing a beat.

Marcus headed down to the mining bay. He wanted to check on the equipment and make sure the ship was ready to drill and collect as soon as they got to the destination. Lontimar was an empty system, but it had rich deposits. All the boxes were checked for a place that was likely crawling with pirates. They'd had a few run-ins with them before, and those encounters were never pretty. _Us or them_ , Marcus reminded himself. _Besides, the universe isn't going to miss them_.

Blowing a heavy breath through his mouth, Marcus pulled a lock of dark blonde hair out of his eyes and tucked it behind his ear. Medium length—perfect for a girl to run her fingers through.

 _Get a hold of yourself._ Marcus shook his head. He made his way through the bay, checking all of the ship's mining gear. The drill. The extractor. It all had to be optimized if they were going to pop in and out with their payload.

What was the agreed upon amount again? Marcus scratched his scalp, and then brought up the contract's text from the projector on the back of his glove. Oh, right. 200 gigatons of minerals, with a bonus for every additional ten gigatons. With any luck, they'd make good on that bonus addendum.

"Marc," his radio piped up. "We're almost at Lontimar. Everything good down there?"

Damn, he didn't realize how long he'd spent in the mining bay. "Yeah, all good." Then, he added, "How are The Caravan's defenses?"

"If I'm being honest, not too great," Jaime crackled through the radio. "The repairs on it are a bit shit. We're never going back to that garage, okay? I thought the prices were good at first, but it seems we got what we paid for."

"Great. That's money down the drain, Jay." Marcus's spirits sank as he realized that part of the pay on this contract would have to go into fixing those "repaired" defenses.

"I seem to learn every lesson the hard way," Jamie sighed.

The Caravan reached the system and closed in on their target planet. Marcus returned to the cockpit just as The Caravan entered the planet's atmosphere. Their scanners didn't show signs of any other ships, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Fortunately, things were quiet as they descended over the mineral deposits and harvested. They soon found out why.

"Heads up, Marc," Jamie announced. Marcus nodded, his eyes concentrated on the ship that seemed to materialize next to them. Suddenly, The Caravan juddered. Marcus gripped the armrests of his seat tightly as the quakes shook him.

"That's another five thousand credits," Marcus mumbled irately. It almost pained him to imagine how big a hole the other ship's anchor had torn into The Caravan's side. He rose, patting the side of his hip to feel the sidearm in its holster. "I'll go, Jay. Hang back and hold fort, okay?"

"Try not to do anything too stupid."

"No promises," Marcus replied, leaving the cockpit. As he descended towards the lower levels of the ship, he heard voices. They were headed for the mining bay where the minerals were stored. Leave it to pirates to waste no time going for the goods.

Marcus turned the corner and found himself face-to-face with two. The one closest to him wore a dirty coat and scowled at the sight of him.

"Hey."

All he got in response was a fist to the face. His vision suddenly blurred and his ears rang. Next thing he knew, he was being roughly dragged. The holster on his hip had been emptied.

Marcus's bearings had just returned to him as they pulled him from The Caravan to the pirates' ship. The one in the dirty coat shoved him down onto the ground before a man Marcus presumed was the captain.

"Found this dumb twat barrelin' headfirst into us, Cap," Dirty Coat hissed.

The captain scoffed, bending down to examine Marcus. He didn't look like a very smart man. None of the ones they'd encountered ever were. Same old song and dance.

"Where's your crew at?" the captain demanded.

"Just me," Marcus answered, feeling the sensitive spot on his jaw thrum with pain. "I'm a contractor, and I've got to get these minerals delivered to my employer."

"You ain't deliverin' shit," the captain sneered. "I'm real tempted to put a bullet between your eyes, but I still got information to pull from you." Straightening up, the captain addressed to the handful of pirates there, "We've got good picking this time, fellas. Didn't think there'd be one of them freaks on that there desert planet, and didn't think there'd be this little twat here. Thanks for pluckin' up the minerals for us."

"Anytime," Marcus replied dryly, which got him pistol-whipped in the face.

The captain turned away. Marcus realized that it was his own gun in the pirate's hand. "What's the happening over there?" the captain demanded through a comm link. "Got the payload secured yet?"

"Aye, Cap," a voice replied. "Payload secured and ready for a-haulin'." Marcus rolled his eyes. Seriously, Jamie's fake pirate voice was so awful that Marcus himself was getting offended.

Luckily, the captain didn't seem to notice. Or realize that the voice responding wasn't from one of his own. Marcus always knew a dumbass when he saw one. "Well get it over here," he barked.

"Uh… Cap." A pirate next to Dirty Coat shifted on his feet. "That didn't… that guy didn't sound right." Marcus swallowed.

The captain whirled around. "What the fuck do you—." He broke off, his eyes settling on Marcus. Then, he bent down until their faces were level. The captain raised an arm. Marcus felt the cold barrel press against his forehead. "Last chance," the captain growled. "Is anyone else on that ship?"

 _Goddamn it, Jamie!_

"I—."

The lights flickered. The pirates looked up, their eyes darting around the ceiling. It was a miracle—an opportunity, and Marcus took it. His hand flew up, pushing the pistol aside just as it fired. The bullet dug deep into the floor. He rose to his feet. As he did, Marcus twisted the barrel of the gun. His other hand squeezed the captain's wrist, and the gun was torn from his grasp.

Marcus flipped the sidearm around until his finger found the trigger again. He shoved the captain down, whirled, and fired. Dirty Coat fell. So did his companion. And that other guy standing over there. Then, he turned back to the captain, who was struggling to get up in his winded state.

Marcus pointed the gun. "Anytime, Cap," he said before squeezing the trigger.

When all was quiet again, he dropped his head and let out a forceful breath. The gun was returned to his holster. "You gotta work on that pirate voice, man. Almost got me fucked over here."

"What are you talking about?" Jamie retorted. "It's as authentic as it gets."

"Fuck y—." Marcus looked up when the lights flickered again. Why was it still doing that? He'd thought it had been Jamie creating a distraction the first time. Then he heard something.

"Marc?"

"Hold up, Jay," Marcus replied in a hushed voice. He pulled the gun from its holster again. "Got something else over here." He hurried over to the door and pressed himself against the wall next to it. Then he paused and listened.

Something was just outside, but he couldn't tell what it was. It didn't sound like footsteps. It was slow, heavy… like something being dragged. The lights flickered again.

Marcus counted down in his head. The fingers around his gun tensed, and he sprang from the wall to confront whatever was outside. The barrel pointed down the corridor.

When Marcus saw it, he froze. Then, he lowered his gun.

"What the _fuck?"_


	2. Chapter 2

Jamie stood when he heard the clambering. "Jay!" Marcus shouted out from down the corridor. "Do we still have that wheelchair? The one with the busted wheel?"

"Wheelchair?" Jamie repeated under his breath. This didn't bode well. He made his way from the airlock and up to where the anchor had pierced The Caravan. "Why, what happened?" he called ahead of him. "Did get you get hurt over there?"

"Not me," Marcus replied. Well, that made things even more cryptic.

"Then who—?" Jamie got his answer as soon as he turned the corner. He paused when he saw Marcus. His partner had one of _those things_ draped across his shoulders.

Jamie never liked the protoss. That wasn't to say he hated them. They just creeped him out. The way they spoke in his head, the way they looked. They were just… too different.

Even then, he could tell this one was in a bad state. It was skinny, even for a protoss. Those things coming out of the back of its head were uneven and malformed. Some ended in underdeveloped stumps, while others grew out to withered ends. Worst of all, it had no legs. Jamie knew the protoss had those weird, double-jointed legs. This one only had thighs that ended just above where the first joint ought to be.

Marcus shifted the unconscious protoss, glaring at Jamie. "Quit gawking and get the wheelchair," he grunted. "He may be missing half his body, but he's still damn heavy."

Quickly, Jamie snapped to his senses. There was an old storage closet where the wheelchair had been shoved in to be forgotten. The left wheel wiggled and squeaked as Jamie rushed it back up the corridor.

They set the protoss down into the seat. It slumped against the armrest.

"Thing's deformed as hell," Jamie hissed under his breath. He motioned towards the missing legs. "Did the pirates do that?"

"Not sure," Marcus answered uneasily. His eyes drifted to a window. "He dragged himself through the ship up to where I was. We locked eyes for a second, and then he just passed out. Been out cold ever since."

"What's a protoss doing with a gang of pirates?"

Marcus turned back to Jamie. "I took a look around the ship," he said, his voice growing firm. "Found a small room, completely dark. There was a cage in there, Jay. Not a cell— _a cage_. Like the kind your little girl keeps that rabbit of hers in. The lock was busted open. Looks like we were in the right place at the right time."

"For him, anyway."

Shaking his head, Marcus stepped past Jamie. "We need to get The Caravan detached and moving," he said. "And then we're headed to Aiur."

 _"Aiur?"_ Jamie echoed, paling a little.

"Where else are we gonna take him?" Marcus shot back. "Home?"

He had a point, but the thought of heading to the protoss home world made Jamie nervous. He didn't know how Marcus managed to stay so calm around those things. "Wait, Marc!"

"What?"

"This thing is…" Jamie glanced at it, and quickly looked away. "It's naked, isn't it?"

"Protoss, not 'thing,'" Marcus corrected. "And go get it a blanket."

* * *

He knew Jamie wasn't too happy about heading to Aiur, but what else were they supposed to do? Marcus stared down at the slowly falling gauge on the control panel. He heard Jamie enter the cockpit behind him. "Change of plans, Jay," he announced. "We gotta make a quick stop and get that hole repaired first. The plaster field covering it isn't going to hold for long, and it sure as hell won't survive a warp." Jamie was silent. "Where'd you put him?"

"Spare room," Jamie answered. "The one with the cot we use as shelf space, remember? Hope you don't mind that I shoved everything onto the floor."

"Did you turn the lights on?"

"… No?"

"Come on, man," Marcus sighed, getting up. "They're like plants—they need light and water."

"I always wondered," Jamie muttered softly.

The spare room hadn't always been a spare room back when the designers of the ship had intended it to hold a larger crew. But now most of the space had been converted to mineral-holding storages, or whatever else the two men saw fit to have. It had taken a while to convince Jamie they needed a whole room dedicated to poker.

Marcus approached the door. As he did, he heard a weak voice.

"Where…?"

It wasn't exactly a voice, but that telepathic thing that protoss did. It was always strange hearing voices in his head.

The door slid open, cutting a bright rectangle into the dark room. Marcus reached over and flipped a switch. As the lights came on, he saw the protoss's blue eyes squint. Then, he relaxed as light bathed his skin.

"You're aboard The Caravan. My ship," Marcus told him as he maneuvered his way over the rusted spare parts that littered the room. "Found you on a pirate ship in the Lontimar system." He reached the bed and sat down on the wheelchair that rested nearby.

"Pirates… Terrans… Yes, that I recall." The protoss lifted a thin arm to gingerly touch his forehead. Marcus noticed the long, dirty talons that grew from the ends of his digits. Damn, those things could cut skin like paper by the looks of them.

"You okay?"

"I… do not know."

"What happened to you?" Marcus asked, finally cutting to the chase. "How did you get mixed up with pirates?"

"I do not know," the protoss repeated, his voiceless words sounding quizzical in Marcus's head. "I have very little memory of what happened prior to being on the terran pirate ship. There was… a box. A cage. I woke up in it after my system was finally able to metabolize down the sedatives."

"So they did something to you. Poked holes in your memory," Marcus guessed. But something told him pirates weren't capable of doing that. "Maybe the tranqs messed with you. They're not designed for protoss bodies."

"Perhaps."

"And that." Marcus finally nodded towards the end of the bed. The covers were flat where legs should have been. "Those sick bastards do that too?"

"No," the protoss answered. "This I remember about myself. I was born without them."

"Huh." Marcus figured a race as advanced as the protoss would've found a way to prevent birth defects. Then again, they weren't perfect. Maybe some things slipped under the radar. "And your dreads too?"

"My…?"

Marcus tapped the back of his own head. The protoss understood.

"I believe it was the same with these," he said, lifting himself from the cot to carefully feel the cords growing from the back of his skull. "Forgive me, terran, but I do not know your name."

"Marcus Kane."

"Marcos Kane," the protoss repeated.

These protoss, without fail, always pronounced his name wrong. And damn it, Marcus was going to correct this one at the very least. "Marc-US," he said.

"Ah, I see. Thank you, Marcus Kane, for taking me off of the pirate vessel."

"Just Marcus is fine. You can drop the Kane." That was another thing the protoss did that always rubbed him the wrong way. "How about you? Your name?"

The protoss hesitated. "This… is also lost to me," he finally admitted.

"Well now's your chance to choose your own."

"Choose my own name?"

"I know. Not many people get the opportunity."

"I suppose I will need to adopt a moniker in place of my true one until I am able to remember again." The protoss was silent as he deliberated. Marcus saw the glowing pupil in his blue eyes flitting around. "Torik," he declared at last. "In our language, t'or means 'again.' Renewal. Fitting, is it not, Marcus?"

"I'd say so," Marcus replied with a shrug. Then, he heard his radio crackle to life.

"Marc, I'm steering us towards the Har-Kion Belt. They've got a fuel station and a workshop there. You coming back up?"

"Nah, you handle this," Marcus replied. "Our good friend here is awake."

"Oh goody," Jamie drawled. "Keep the door locked. I don't want the repairmen stumbling in on him."

"Sure."

"Who is that?" Torik asked.

"My friend, Jamie Langston. The two of us make up the crew on this ship." Marcus leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. "Your pirate buddies tore our ship a new one. We're going to make a stop for repairs before we take you back to Aiur."

He could practically see the shock ripple across the protoss's face. "Aiur? But Aiur has been lost to the Swarm!"

"What?" Marcus said. "What are you…? Aiur's been Swarm-free for at least 13 years. Just how much of your memory did you lose?"

Torik sat back against the headboard, looking down at his lap. "I… It seems I have forgotten more than I thought. This is concerning. Aiur belongs to the protoss again?"

"Yup."

"This is heartening news," Torik noted softly. "I believe I was born on Aiur. It will be good to be home again."

A protoss born on Aiur, discovered light-years away in a system that was almost on the opposite end of the sector. The curiosity tore at Marcus, but he knew asking was useless. Torik knew about as much as he did.

"Marcus," the protoss suddenly spoke up. "What is a zoo?"

"Sorry?"

"A zoo. What is it?"

"Uh… well, it's an establishment that holds animals in controlled settings. Folks take their kids to go look at them and stuff."

"… I see."

"Why?"

"Back when I was on the pirate ship," Torik explained, "I could hear the pirates as I was slipping in and out of consciousness. They were saying amongst themselves that they should bring me to a zoo."

"Ah, don't take that to heart," Marcus said. "Pirates say the nastiest shit. You don't want to know what one said about my ma. I broke his nose over it." A loud clang came from outside. The Caravan had docked at the workshop. Repairs would take another hour.

"What did the pirate say about your mother?" Torik ventured.

"Called her a cock-sucking bitch, which couldn't be more far from the truth. I tell you, Torik, you don't say that to a man unless you wanna rile him up bad."

"Our people have affronts as well," Torik said. "But they do not involve one's mother. Rather, they are directed at the individual themselves. 'Warrior without honor' is one that strikes at those of the templar caste. 'Bone-crested' is another amongst the judicators. It implies there is nothing within one's cranial crest aside from bone." From beyond the door, there was drilling and humming from the repairs being done on the Caravan's side.

"So tame," Marcus noted.

* * *

 _Aiur—three days later_

Jamie groaned as he pushed his chair back away from the control panel. "They're going to call us once we get near the planet, aren't they?" he said. "Yeah, I'll be in my room while you drop our pal Torik off."

Marcus rolled his eyes as Jamie retreated out of the cockpit. "All right. See ya, princess." He leaned back in his chair, watching Aiur grow in the horizon.

The incoming call came as The Caravan neared the planet's outer barrier. A small screen flipped up from the control panel and flickered to life. "Marcos Kane," Praetor Ellandar greeted from the small monitor. "Much time has passed since you last came to Aiur. Have you trouble seeking employment amongst your own systems?"

"I'm not here for work, Praetor," Marcus replied.

"Then do explain your presence here." The outer barrier was maintained, and Marcus was forced to slow The Caravan.

"I found a protoss in the Lontimar system—injured. He says he's from Aiur, so I've come to bring him back."

"You found one of the firstborn in Lontimar?" Marcus didn't blame the Praetor for sounding so cynical. "Let me see this one first. Then I will consider permitting you through the barrier."

Always a stickler for confirmation, this Ellandar. Marcus sighed. "Alright, let me get him."

There was music coming from the spare room. There had been music coming from it for the past three days. To help stave off the boredom, Marcus had introduced Torik to his playlist. The concept of songs—particularly singing—fascinated the protoss. Marcus had to explain to him how humans were able to vocalize different notes. Apparently, that wasn't a thing among the protoss given the fact that they had no real voices to begin with. Following that, Torik had spent the next few days tearing through the hundreds of songs in the playlist.

Marcus immediately recognized the song currently playing—a classic. The volume doubled when the doors slid open. Torik sat in the wheelchair, facing the console. His fingers were knitted together over his lap.

"I enjoy this one," the protoss remarked.

"Yeah," Marcus agreed. "Gotta love that Smooth Criminal." He stopped next to Torik and turned the song down. "Listen, the fellas down on Aiur won't let me through unless they see you first."

"Very well," Torik agreed. Marcus took the wheelchair's handles and pushed him up to the cockpit. As soon as Torik's image was relayed to the Praetor, Ellandar visibly reeled back.

"By the gods!" he cried out, and then collected himself. "What is wrong you?"

"Honorable Praetor," Torik said. "This was the form bestowed upon me from the womb."

Praetor Ellandar was quiet for a moment. Then, Marcus saw a small gap open in the barrier. "You may enter," Ellandar told him. "A port has been designated to you."

Marcus nodded at the screen. "Much obliged." The screen shut off, and The Caravan moved through the barrier. Marcus inputted the coordinates of the assigned port, and the vessel descended towards it.

"The Praetor's inquiry was 'what is wrong with you,' not 'what has been done to you?'" Torik said quietly.

"Ellandar isn't exactly the friendliest guy," Marcus assured. Quickly, he double-checked that The Caravan had stopped transmitting to Aiur. "Kind of big-headed if you ask me. What did you call it? Crest-boned?"

"Imperfection is not loved by the firstborn. If such a reception is common, then I fear I will be thrust down to the lowest rung of the Khalai caste," Torik continued to fret to himself. "No better a fate than being locked among beasts in one of your zoos."

"There are no castes. Your people did away with them a long time ago."

"The castes have been broken down? Why?"

"Ask your Hierarch Artanis. He was the one who decreed it."

"Artanis is a hierarch now?"

"Oh boy," Marcus sighed. "You have a lot of catching up to do."

They both turned and watched The Caravan lower gingerly over one of Aiur's docking ports. It was predominantly gold in color, with accents of turquoise blue—just like every damn thing the protoss here built. Marcus felt The Caravan rock, and then still as clamps secured the ship to the port.

"Well," Marcus said, powering the ship's engines down. "Welcome home, Torik. How's it feel?"

"It has been a long time since I have returned to this world," Torik replied, his eyes still gazing out to the planet beyond the glass. "I do not feel at home here. But perhaps time will allow me to acclimate." Marcus wheeled him down to the ramp.

There were a few protoss workers going about on the port. As Marcus and Torik descended, those nearest stopped in their tracks. Their gazes were all focused on the same thing.

Someone was striding across the platform to meet them. It wasn't the Praetor. Gold plating adorned with blue and milky white gems covered her body in an armor-like fashion. Two large gold structures, curved like crescent moons, rose from behind her shoulders. Thin chains draped over her face like webs.

When she came close enough, Marcus said, "How've you been, dollface?"

Her blue eyes narrowed. "The hierarch may tolerate your presence, but that does not mean I do," Ariadis replied stonily. "You will address me properly, and keep your silly terran pet names to yourself."

"Good to see you too."

Ariadis ignored his comment as she looked over the protoss in the wheelchair. "What is your name?" she asked him.

"Torik."

"Torik, I am Executor Ariadis. Is that… terran clothes you are wearing?"

The protoss looked down. Marcus spoke up for him. "Don't exactly have a protoss's wardrobe on my ship."

Ariadis didn't pursue the topic any further. "I will ensure that proper garments are provided to you. The Daelaam wish to know how you came to be in captivity within the Lontimar system." Her gaze shifted to Marcus. "Your purpose here is done. You may return to your ship and leave."

"Hold up, I'm not heading out just yet," Marcus objected. "I want to make sure Torik's gonna be okay here." Jamie was going to hate him, but that was fine.

"That is not necessary."

"Torik suffers from amnesia," Marcus said. "The gaps in his memory span years."

"Our doctors will treat him." Ariadis stepped closer to Marcus. She towered a good foot over him. "Marcos Kane, you are overextending your—."

"Peace, Executor. You cannot forcibly eject him from Aiur. Marcos Kane will depart when he is ready," said Ellandar, appearing by them. "I do not blame the terran for desiring to prolong his time on our world. Might we step aside, Ariadis? There are matters we need to discuss."

The executor nodded, though her body language oozed with reluctance at taking her careful watch away from Marcus and Torik. When the two of them were out of earshot, Marcus let out a heavy sigh. "A real vixen, that one." He nudged Torik with his elbow. "Huh?" He, of course, was joking. There was nothing about protoss he found appealing, but Ariadis, with her rigidness, was too damn fun to toy with.

"Yes," he heard Torik agree softly. "She is… beautiful."

"Wait," Marcus said after a pause, "really?"

Suddenly, Torik took wheels of his chair and began rolling himself away. "It should not be in my place to say," he said. "Some things do not change, Marcus. The castes may be eliminated by ordinance, but they remain inherently. Do you notice how they look at me?" He stopped wheeling and touched the stumps at the ends of his legs. "What they say with their gazes is correct. Look at me. I am an abomination."

"Being a downer ain't going to help you." Marcus trailed after him. "Where are you going?"

"I am to go before the Daelaam and explain myself," Torik answered. "Though doing so is going to be difficult for me. I am afraid they will find little satisfaction with my answers, but I will try nonetheless."

"You sure you're going to be fine?"

"Yes." With one wheel, Torik turned himself around. "You have done much for me. I thank you, friend Marcus, for your kindness. May we meet again should you return to Aiur."

"You can count on it."

The heavy rubber soles of his work boots clunked loudly against the ramp as Marcus walked back up the ramp. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Torik was still watching him. Lifting a hand, he gave the protoss a wave. Torik imitated the action.


	3. Chapter 3

The robes he was given were simple. Its silver material had a soft luster that sheened in the light. White stripes ran through the cloth, parallel to the hems. The robes, designed for an ordinary protoss, draped limply over the edge of the wheelchair.

When the man who was readying him turned away, Torik spotted his artificially shortened nerve cords and was once again reminded of something that struck him as odd since arriving on Aiur.

"I thought only the Nerazim cut their nerve cords," he said. "Has the custom spread to all firstborn?"

"No," his companion replied. He guided a hovering machine over to Torik, which stopped over his hand. A small beam shot down from the machine. It scanned over his talons, cleaning and trimming them in one sweep. The device drifted over to his other hand and did the same. "It was not the Nerazim that prompted this. You will find that any who lived during the End War, save for the Tal'darim, have docked their cords. It was done out of necessity."

"Necessity?"

"Curious." The protoss gazed at Torik thoughtfully. "Do you truly remember nothing of the war? Where you were as it happened?"

Once again, Torik fought to recall. He searched and found nothing. Not even the faintest sliver of memory—it was as if those memories simply hadn't been there to begin with. "I do not," he admitted.

"Amon—one of the xel'naga—infiltrated the Khala with his dark presence and used it to enslave the High Templars to his will. For a period of time, the entire Golden Armada was under his control."

As he listened, Torik thought of the executor he had met on the dock. He didn't remember seeing her cut cords, though she certainly must've have done it as well. Had she once been trapped under this Amon's control along with the rest of the Golden Armada? The thought made Torik feel unusually protective.

He had little time to wonder as he continued to be prepared. Finally, it was deemed that Torik was presentable enough to go before the Daelaam. He started to roll himself out of the dressing room when the protoss clamped his hand over the wheel and kept him from moving.

"It would behoove you to rid yourself of this terran equipment," he said to Torik. "This thing is primitive, inefficient."

"Then would you have me drag myself along the floor before the Daelaam?" Torik retorted.

"Wheels perform poorly over uneven terrain," the protoss explained. He walked over to a short pedestal and touched a certain part of it. The metal under his finger glowed. Then, from the ground, a small, circular platform was activated. Its circumference glowed with dots of blue light as it rose. "This was the best I could find on a short notice. It is a short-distance transporter of minerals, but it will suffice." Torik stared at it wearily. Reluctantly, he lifted himself from the wheelchair and onto the platform.

It was far more uncomfortable than the wheelchair, especially since it had no back to lean on. The protoss explained to Torik that a technician was once able to operate the platform by calibrating his nerve cords to it. The protoss let his words trail off and looked inquisitively at Torik's withered and underdeveloped cords. "It can also be manually operated," he suggested, handing an ovular remote to Torik. "Shall I accompany you to the Council Chamber?"

"I think I shall manage on my own," Torik said tiredly. He never thought he'd find himself longing for the solitude of that pirate cage.

The Council Chamber was not hard to find. Its grand doors were a loud indicator of what was held inside. Flanking it on either side were two High Templars. Torik found himself the target of their sharp gazes as he approached them.

"Is the Daelaam ready to see me?"

"Wait here." One of the Templars entered the chamber, presumably to find the answer. How inefficient his people had become after severing their cords. Once, communication had been instantaneous. One needed not enter the same room to converse with another. It was a wonder how the Nerazim ever survived outside the Khala.

Wait. Torik paused. How was it that he could recall how it once was like to be connected to the Khala? The shattered shards of his memory told him that his cords had always been withered and useless, but… Were even these broken pieces not to be trusted?

So perhaps his cords had once worked. Maybe they had not always been deformed. The pirates could have cut them while he was in captivity, and malnutrition might have withered the rest. Torik looked down at the empty dress of his robes. Could it even be possible that he had once been able to stand on his own as well? A flicker, like the small bulb of a flame, lit in his mind. Something was returning. He saw—.

"The Daelaam is waiting for you," the templar said, breaking through the surface of his thoughts. Torik looked up. The templar had resumed his position by the door and motioned a hand towards the door. Right. It was time.

He was still a little disconcerted when he entered the chamber. Members of the Daelaam sat in high seats before him, surrounding him with an intimidating semicircle. The corners of the chamber glowed with soft blue from thin pillars. Their glassy surfaces played liquid-like in the light, and occasionally dim pulses would run through them. The chamber was large, and the high ceiling only magnified the effect.

Torik was surprised to see the individuals who made up the Daelaam. Hierarch Artanis was there, of course. And there was Selendis—the last Torik remembered of her was that she had been an executor. Although her position in the arrangement, at the right of Artanis, implied that she was the high executor now. Where Selendis would've once sat was Ariadis. There was another executor, though Torik didn't recognize him. On the other side of Artanis was Praetor Ellandar.

And then that woman there… She looked familiar. She was definitely someone well known among the firstborn, as the sight of her tugged at Torik's slacked memory. All he knew now was that she was one of the Nerazim. Her presence here told Torik that the Khalai and Nerazim tribes had truly become integrated.

Auir was retaken. The tribes were reunited. These were strange times Torik had found himself in. The universe was so much different than the one he last remembered.

He was quickly aware that the members of the Daelaam were speaking, though thankfully not to him. With the absence of the Khala, it was much harder for the firstborn to communicate privately to targeted individuals. The basic form of telepathy they all now resorted to could be heard by anyone close enough to receive it.

They talked among themselves about the details of Torik that they knew of thus far. All save the hierarch spoke. Artanis, by contrast, sat silently and listened.

Aside from the brief description Marcus had given him about zoos, Torik knew nothing of those human establishments. Still, he couldn't help but feel as though he were one of those beasts on display. They drew up their speculations of him, but not once did they speak to him directly. Torik felt alone.

In an attempt to scavenge solace, he let his gaze fall on the executor. Ariadis led the discussion, having heard the most information from Marcus on the dock. It was clear that she had been born from a strong lineage. Though his words about her on the dock had been brazen, Torik meant them.

"Then perhaps he is one of the Tal'darim?" the Nerazim woman said. Torik looked at her in shock. Did they truly think that? He doubted they'd let him live if they did.

"Does he look of Tal'darim to you?" Ellandar countered. "And besides, they are a ruthless people. This one wouldn't have survived a day outside the womb like that."

"That could explain the unorthodox location he was found in," the Nerazim woman replied. Her name was just on the peripheral of Torik's memory, but he couldn't quite get to it. "He fled from them, or they left him for dead in the Lontimar System."

"Despite what I know of Alarak, I do not think he would allow that," Selendis chimed in.

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Why not ask him yourself?" came Artanis's soft suggestion. The Daelaam looked to their hierarch, and then down at Torik. Beast in a zoo.

"Torik," Artanis said. "Tell us what you know—as far as your memory will allow. Where exactly in the Lontimar System were you when the terrans found you?"

Silence met the hierarch's question as the deformed protoss at the center of the chamber looked down. He frantically searched through his mind, desperate to break the uncomfortable lull. "I…" he began slowly. "I… simply remember one thing. Words etched… on a sign, perhaps. I believe it was the name of the place I was in. Inht. That's what it was called."

The brilliant blue of Ariadis's eyes dimmed as she looked down to the holographic screen that was quickly pulled up. Torik saw the faint silhouette of her hand as it moved behind the screen. A secondary gaze caught his attention, and he looked to see Ellandar staring intently at him. Quickly, Torik lowered his eyes.

"I can find no place—city, country, or planet—called 'Inht,'" Ariadis announced.

"It is in the Lontimar System. The database's collection of terran locations is not as thorough," Selendis said.

" _Inht_ sounds of protoss, not terran. Unless they have adopted the habit of using our words to name their civilizations now?"

"It is not an impossibility."

"What else?" Artanis continued. "Is there anything else you remember?"

Torik had been beckoned to search his patchy memories countless times now. It was getting to be frustrating. He knew that if the Khala were still intact, and his nerve cords operational, he would've been able to reach them easily. But he was living in new times now.

"I apologize, Hierarch," Torik answered. "I recall nothing else of my time in Lontimar before being found. I am certain time will help mend these holes."

"I pray it will," Artanis replied. "Your time before the Daelaam is appreciated Torik, but I shan't prolong it. It would be poor of me to keep you any longer. A doctor is waiting to examine you."

"Doctor?" Torik repeated weakly.

"Yes. She has been called here to ensure you do not suffer from any additional ailments, and to run a diagnostic on your legs. She believes there may be a chance to regenerate them."

"I-I see." Torik couldn't help but stammer out his words before the hierarch. What he was hearing sounded too good to be true.

"This gathering is dismissed. I will call an escort to bring you to Dr. Meren."

"Allow me, Hierarch," Ellandar suddenly spoke up. Artanis paused, and then gave a nod. Torik gave one last fleeting glance to Ariadis before the praetor came to his side. "Come, friend Torik," Ellandar beckoned, his voice uncomfortably pleasant. "Let us not keep Meren waiting." Torik looked down at the remote. Before he could do anything, he felt his platform jerk as the praetor grabbed it and whirled him towards the door with a yank. Torik's free hand shot out to catch himself before he could teeter off. He was vexed, but remained silent.

Ellandar walked alongside Torik through the golden halls until they had gone a good distance away from the chamber and anyone else. Then, he passed Torik with a sudden burst of speed and turned to block his path. Torik slowed, but Ellandar reached out and forced the platform into an abrupt halt. "I find it humorous," the praetor said slowly, "that even without the Khala binding our minds, I hear your thoughts so clearly."

"Praetor?"

"Do not think I failed notice how your eyes seemed to favor the executor's direction." Ellandar's head tilted slightly as he continued, "I do not fault you. As the terrans have shown me, even the simplest beings possess the capability to appreciate beauty."

Torik couldn't believe what was going on. At the same time, he hadn't realized how often he had looked to Ariadis. "I mean no offense, Praetor, but this is petty."

"Friend Torik." This time, Ellandar's words came with a bite. "I do this as a favor to you—can you not see that? You are back on Aiur now, where you belong. It is time to return to reality, my friend. Understand where you and the executor are on the spectrum. It does not do to chase after the impossible."

Torik graced Ellandar's words with silence, though the praetor saw his eyes grow defensively harsh.

"Now, Torik, what did you expect? You are no templar, and Ariadis holds strong genes fit for one. Do you think she wants them sullied by sickly blood? Would anyone? Aiur does not need more children like this." He waved a hand, beckoning at Torik's lower body.

So these were the praetor's true colors, were they? Torik held the taller protoss's gaze and said, "You've made your point abundantly clear, Praetor. We should not keep the doctor waiting."

"I am glad you see reason," Ellandar replied in a satisfied tone. He turned and continued down the hall. Torik followed, silently wishing that Marcus hadn't brought him to Aiur. He missed the terran's company, though many here would consider that company too primitive for their tastes. He missed that playlist.

* * *

Dr. Meren's soft voice and thin frame deceived. Her wit was as unbending as a templar's alloy plating, though it belied a gentle personality. Torik saw these two facets within minutes of meeting the doctor. As soon as he and Ellandar entered the small laboratory where her equipment had been set up, the praetor was immediately cleared out of the room by her snappish demands. Rank, it seemed, did not matter much to her.

As soon as the two of them were alone, Dr. Meren turned to a control panel. At the command of her fingertips, the floor at the center of the room and a chair ascended. Even when the ground closed back up, it continued to hover. "Take a seat, Torik," Dr. Meren invited as she continued to operate the engine. Her voice had completely shed its bark. "I cannot believe they had you going about on a mineral platform. I will ensure you are given a transport chair." Torik started to lean back as the chair under him reclined. It only stopped when he was lying flat on his back.

"Minor signs of malnutrition," he heard Dr. Meren note. "Evidence of underdevelopment. Your bones are slightly less dense than the acceptable average. Slight muscle atrophy—nothing proper nourishment and activity will not fix. Heavy nerve cord emaciation. There is nothing that can be done about that, but there is no longer any Khala to connect to anyway." She turned to Torik. "You've no serious conditions. Rest and restoration is all you need. Now I want to take a look at these." She walked to where Torik's legs were. A small drone had appeared by her shoulder, no bigger than her head.

Lifting his head, Torik watched Dr. Meren. The drone floated up to her head. Suddenly, a small lens extended from it, positioned in front of the doctor's left eye. Torik felt Dr. Meren place a hand on one of his stumps. "Hmm," she hummed softly.

Torik remembered Artanis's words. "The hierarch said you could regenerate them."

"It is not that simple, I'm afraid," Dr. Meren said. "I told Artanis there was a slight chance."

"And what dictates that chance?"

"Luck, mostly," Dr. Meren admitted. Torik felt her fingers continue to delicately prod his legs, each time at a different place. "But understand that our bodies were not designed to regenerate—not on this scale. Successfully prompting rapid cell formation has a slim, slim success rate. But the odds are improved just a margin if the body had been born with the limbs, which is what I am trying to figure out now."

"I think I was born without them."

"I have been debriefed about your amnesia," Dr. Meren said. "Forgive me, Torik, but I am a woman of science. I prefer solid evidence over words when opportunity permits."

"I take no offense, Doctor."

The next minute or so was spent in silence. Dr. Meren had stopped poking him, but Torik was hearing strange noises coming from the drone. If his neck hadn't grown so tired, he would've continued watching. For now, all Torik could do was wonder what was being extended from that little bot now.

"Hmm," he heard the doctor hum in her quiet voice. "Puzzling."

"What is it?"

"Your body is telling me a contradiction," Dr. Meren explained. "I scanned for any evidence of birth defects in your genome and found none. No altered genes leading to underdevelopment." She walked back up to where she could look at him. "Do you know what this means, Torik? It means you should not have been born like this. You were not."

"…. Then…"

"But I did a thorough examination of your legs," the doctor continued, "and I found no evidence of any healed wounds. No sign that limbs were removed and flesh mended. In fact, the deformations are natural—as if from birth. A complete contradiction."

It confused Torik too, but the matter was irrelevant in the face of the chance to finally be whole again. "And how does this affect the chances of regeneration?"

Dr. Meren tapped a finger against her face, and said, "I apologize, but I cannot conduct such a procedure without fully understanding this issue." In a lighter tone, she added, "But I have another option for you in the meantime. I can send you to my husband, Karax. He is a phase smith with no equal, and I am certain he can fashion for you a pair of artificial legs." She paused as she read Torik's face. "Is something troubling you?"

"No," Torik answered automatically. Then, he hesitated before saying, "Doctor, can we… can we talk?"

"Happy to," Dr. Meren replied. She tapped on the control panel, and the chair lowered back into an upright position. "Are you experiencing any additional pain?"

"No, that's not…" Torik trailed off, growing uneasy. "I simply—… perhaps it would have been better had I not said anything."

"I know this is an uncomfortable situation for you," Dr. Meren assured him. "I cannot claim to understand a fraction of what you are experiencing. But I am a doctor—I will stand by you through this whole endeavor."

"Doctor," Torik said. "You are the only one on Aiur who has not been repulsed by the sight of me."

Dr. Meren was quiet for a spell. The air beside her glowed a soft blue as a chair warped into the room. The doctor took a seat. "I see," she replied softly. "So this is where the pain is." She paused again, and continued, "I am a practitioner of medicine, Torik. I deal with ailments of physical nature, but that does not mean I shan't try here. My response to your remark will not be as graceful as you desire—it is simply because I encounter anomalies on a daily basis. Injuries, deformations… During the End War, I saw the worst that battlefields had to offer. They became as common to me as mornings. I have become desensitized to the point where I see beyond the mutilation. I see the patient."

Dr. Meren waved towards the laboratory door. "And those like the praetor… The Citadel has too many like him. They think their narrow perspectives wide, even though they have never placed one toe out of their comfortable little spheres. If Ellandar has showered you with disdain since meeting you, take no personal offense. He is like that to everyone."

Her words provided only minimal relief to Torik. Even if the praetor had spoken to deride, that didn't make his words any less true. "Now that I am on Aiur, I want to be something worthwhile. I do not want to be a patient forever."

"My job is to ensure that," Dr. Meren said.

* * *

The doctor accompanied Torik out of the Hall of the Daelaam. This was the first time he had seen the capital city of Aiur from the ground. Tall, golden buildings cut a grand skyline into the pale sky. Around him, protoss walked in hurried paces. Columns of bright blue shot into the air as more protoss warped to and fro.

Dr. Meren led the way through the streets. The phase smiths' facility, she told him, was not far from the Hall. Proximity meant that the Daelaam could hear of and direct innovations quicker. Dr. Meren referred to the facility as her husband's "primary home," with their actual place of residence being his second.

"It is as though he is afraid that should he stop working, so will his heart," the doctor quipped as they walked. "But I cannot fault him. He loves his work, as do I."

Torik followed after her, trying his best to ignore the second glances that his chair and limp robes attracted. The new transport chair Dr. Meren had given him worked wonderfully compared to the platform. It moved smoothly and responded instantly to his psionic cues. Before they had left, Dr. Meren had opened up the end of one of Torik's truncated nerve cords to connect with the chair.

"Do you truly believe he can help me?"

"This is an unprecedented case, but Karax will not be deterred by that. Quite the opposite—he lives for the problems that test him. Unfortunately, he forsakes respite whenever he finds one, which drives me mad."

It was then that the phase smith facility came to view. It contrasted sharply with the Hall of the Daelaam, which had been designed with aesthetics being at the forefront of the architects' minds. A phase smith or two had obviously been involved with the planning to wave away all of the fickle aspects.

The interior was no different, though it was livelier than Torik had expected. Drones of all shapes and purposes whizzed through the corridors. Machines unlike anything he'd seen filled the place. He hadn't the faintest idea what most of them did.

This was Aiur as it was now. Torik told himself he'd better get used to it.


	4. Chapter 4

_2519—the Tal'darim planet of Xil._

Highlord Alarak was irate even on his better days—but it usually was a good anger. It was the kind that made him want to crack bones. Having that kind of heat pulse through him was almost as good as the terrazine.

But today, his rage was of a different nature. Today, the Tal'darim were just a little more fearful of their highlord.

The ship touched down onto the dune surface of Xil. Green vegetation peppered the planet, though there was much less of it now than before. From the ravishing of the xel'naga to the battling with terrans, Xil's surface had experienced quite the amount of abuse.

But leafy things were the least of Alarak's concern. He had arrived on the reviving Tal'darim planet in response to a distress call from one of his colonies. But in all honesty, the desire to protect the colonists hadn't brought him here. Strife had died down again in the past few years. Battle with the terrans had slowed down to a standstill, though Alarak still looked forward to the day he would bleed the ones who betrayed him.

Things weren't happening and he was bored. Plus, he wanted to know which fool had the gall to attack one of his settlements. Alarak sorely hoped he'd meet that Nova here. Or Ji'nara, even.

His warriors filed from the accompanying ships and followed him into the colony. The tall onyx buildings stood like silent giants. It was all too quiet, and the highlord had to admit that it was just a bit eerie.

But the colony was not empty. They found corpses indoors. Something had killed his people, and killed them quickly. Alarak assumed that by the time he had received the distress signal the settlement was already dead.

He stood over a corpse and noted its wounds. "Protoss," he remarked. "Now that is interesting."

He received an incoming transmission from the Third Ascendant who had gone to sweep the other half of the colony. "Highlord," Third Ascendant Levok addressed. "We have just scouted the settlement's nexus. It has been heavily ransacked."

Alarak prickled at his Third Ascendant's words. "What did they take?" he growled.

"Every Khaydarin crystal," Levok answered. "All processing machinery. It would be easier to list what they did not take."

How _dare_ someone steal from him. Whoever it was would pay dearly. Alarak whirled away from the holographic screen and took a few steps, fighting to stave away his fury. He needed a clear head to think up his next course of action. "Levok," he said. "I want you to—." He broke off when he turned back to the screen.

In that fleeting instant, Levok was no longer alone. Alarak caught a glimpse of a pair of eyes glowing dimly from the darkness behind him. Then the transmission was abruptly cut.

Alarak's brow furrowed. "Third Ascendant Levok!" he snapped into the dead transmission. "Levok! Answer me!" He unsheathed his crimson psi-blades and quickly warped to the nexus in a flash of brilliant light. When his form reappeared, Alarak witnessed what had happened to his Third Ascendant.

She was yanking her psi-blade out of his skull, and then pushed the body carelessly aside. She looked up. Alarak's eyes met hers for just a heartbeat. Psionic energy shot out from him as he attempted to capture her in a snare.

He failed. The energy pulsed uselessly through the curling smoke she left in her wake. Alarak hissed in bitter frustration. His eyes darted around, searching for any of her remaining allies. Only the dead accompanied him. The air lit up as his warriors warped in around him.

"Sweep the entire nexus!" the highlord demanded furiously. "Every corner, every shadow! Should you find anyone still living, fix that! I will discern what I can from their corpses later!" The warriors obeyed quickly. Alarak walked to and stood over the body of his former Third Ascendant. Faint wisps of smoke still lingered in the air.

"Nerazim," he snarled to himself. "The Matriarch will answer for this."

* * *

Doctors examined. Phase-smiths analyzed. Torik understood this difference after experiencing both sides. The way Dr. Meren had observed him contrasted vastly with the way her husband did.

It was clear Karax was going to be unable to create Torik's legs without Dr. Meren's aid, given his apparent lacking expertise of biology. He questioned her constantly on Torik's condition. The appendages attached to Karax's shortened nerve cords typed at a terminal while he continued to inspect Torik.

"But if there was some part to reattach to…" Karax suggested.

"There is no 'reattaching,' Karax. It is not as simple as sticking parts into a photon cannon," Dr. Meren said. "I would like to keep his legs as intact as possible until I understand the story behind them. A psionic connection will be adequate."

"I do not think we should depend solely on a psionic bond," Karax argued gently. "There is a possibility that it will be too weak. This requires a strong, steadfast attachment."

"It does not. His psionic capability is enough to hold."

"What about in the case of extensive movement? When he needs his psionic abilities for other actions? He cannot stretch it too thin across too many outlets."

"And in what scenario will that happen?"

Torik suddenly spoke up. "I wish to become a templar as soon as I am able to stand." Both the phase-smith and the doctor looked at him, surprise mirrored in either face. Torik was well aware that his outburst was outrageous. He was extremely late. Those who would eventually join the high templars underwent training that started at very young ages. Still, a late beginning was as good as any.

"I… do not know if that is… well…" Karax stated nervously.

"Torik, this is a big leap," Dr. Meren warned. Quickly, she put a hand up. "I do not aim to discourage you. If you desire to join the ranks of the templars, then I am determined to see you through. However… starting as soon as you are able to stand is impossible."

"I know my body is weak," Torik sighed. "Which is exactly why I am committed to changing as soon as I can."

"One step at a time, Torik. For now, we face the challenge of getting you to stand."

"Speaking of which," Karax said, looking over to the doctor. "What about the nerves, Meren? How are we to deal with those?" His wife shot him a look.

The next hours passed in similar fashion. Karax and Dr. Meren continued to brainstorm while Torik idly listened in. Despite their differences, their collaboration was fluid—almost complementing each other. It was no wonder they were a pair.

At that thought, Torik once again brooded over Ariadis. One by one, a train of emotions emerged at the mere thought of the executor. The feeling of inadequacy, followed by the burning desire to change the way things were. He wanted so desperately to be a templar. Maybe then he'd be worth a second look from her. From anyone.

Thankfully, a distraction pulled him away from his downtrodden mulling. Karax and Dr. Meren's discussion had come to a satisfactory point where the doctor could leave Karax to blueprint the rest on his own. The phase-smith was practically glowing at this new engagement. He turned to his terminal and immediately became engrossed in his work. Holographic screens full of quick-moving data whizzed and danced before him. Dr. Meren stepped over to Torik. "Come. Let us return to the lab," she told him. Torik nodded and turned his chair around.

Dr. Meren hesitated, and then turned back. "Karax?" she said.

"Yes?" the phase-smith replied absently.

"Will you be returning home tonight?"

Karax didn't answer, his eyes concentrated on the bare skeleton of a schematic.

"Karax."

"Oh!" Finally, the phase-smith tore his eyes away from the screens and looked back at the doctor. "What was that, Meren?" She repeated herself, and Karax turned back to the screen. "Not tonight. This really needs… I'll have the detailed schematics ready for you by morning," he assured, as if that was his wife's concern.

Even without the Khala, Torik felt Dr. Meren's hurt. "Very well," she replied in what was sure to be an artificial tone. "Just be sure to _please_ take a break every so often. Even if it has to be a brief pause. Can you do that for me, Karax?"

"Of course." The screens whizzed.

The journey back from the facility was quiet. Torik wished he knew what to say to alleviate the doctor's silent pain. She had been the only one among his people he could truly consider a friend. "Doctor," he began. "Have you… ever mentioned to him that perhaps he spends too much time at the facility?"

"His research brings him joy," she said. "I do not wish to take that away from him. If he is happy, then so am I."

"I just do not think it fair." Dr. Meren had no response to that. Then, Torik continued, "How was it that you and Phase-smith Karax came to know each other?"

"Ah," Dr. Meren said. This time, Torik heard the affection in her voice. "I would like to believe it was fate, though calling it chance would be more realistic." A drone sped by them on the street, curving around the two as it passed them. "When Hierarch Artanis raised the Golden Armada against Ga'edus, I was amongst the first to answer. Immediately, we were thrust into battle. I was assigned to a field hospital spacecraft where wounded templar would warp back to." Dr. Meren slowed and stopped talking as they passed a group of protoss. Their gazes, of course, were immediately drawn to Torik. Then, they continued on their way.

"Up until then, I thought I had seen everything as a war medic. I could not have been more wrong. I served during many of the hierarch's first battles. I witnessed the aftermaths of what Ga'edus did to templars—his own kind. Never before have I seen so many that were too gone to save. Several dragoons were deployed during that war.

"Then, one day, someone else was warped into my hospital. This one was not a warrior, but a phase-smith. He was a very rash, brave phase-smith who had gone down to the planet's surface himself to oversee the construction of a great turret that would destroy Ga'edus's ships from the ground. That obviously made the base very, very attractive for Ga'edus's forces to target. His wounds were one of the lightest amidst those of who had also managed to warp back from that base. But that was a relative comparison. The phase-smith bore severe injuries and was in a great amount of pain. However, his colleagues were dying quicker, so all I could do was stabilize his condition and drug him senseless to keep him from going into shock.

"He was already awake by the time I could finally return to him. Supplies were limited and he was still completely numbed, so I began operating on him then and there. He merely mumbled nonsense all the while. Then, as I was extracting a crystal shard out of his leg, he spoke to me—called me 'a true marvel of engineering.' It was the first time in a very long time I had laughed. I think I fell in love with him in that moment." They drew closer to the Hall of the Daelaam. "But after that, we did not see one another again for a very long time. Karax went to Shakuras to work with the dark templars and I stayed behind with the Golden Armada to look after the constant stream of wounded. I thought he had forgotten about me until after the End War when we met again on Aiur."

They entered the Hall and made straight for Dr. Meren's laboratory. Inside the lab, the chair had gone. Instead, a bed was nestled up against the wall. Dr. Meren explained that Torik would be residing inside the lab until the research on his legs was complete.

The doctor paused to think. "Just to ensure you are acclimated, I will remain with you during this first night. Besides, I grow tired of having to return to an empty home."

And so evening rolled by with very little occurring. Dr. Meren sat at her terminal and busied herself with her own work while Torik once again found himself longing for the distraction of terran music. They began chatting idly. Torik asked Dr. Meren about Aiur—how it had been reclaimed. What had happened during the End War. Slowly, the doctor brought Torik up to speed.

"And then this… Ga'edus you spoke of. You made him sound just as bad as Amon."

Dr. Meren's fingers slowed over the terminal's keyboard. "If I did, that was not my intention," she said. "The two cannot be compared. Though I am sure Ga'edus wanted very much to be like Amon. But he wasn't—Ga'edus was one of us, and that is what makes him so horrifying in his own way." Dr. Meren turned to Torik and clenched a fist in front of her chest. "Those like Hierarch Artanis, Matriarch Vorazun, and my husband shed sweat and blood to free the protoss from the chains of our old ways. Under the Daelaam's leadership, the firstborn were finally one people. During the battles for Aiur, my hospital saw both high and dark templars—even Tal'darim warriors. Then as we rebuilt our home world, my sister wed a Nerazim veteran, and the two of them are happily raising their children on the customs of the dark templars. It was the dawn of a time I thought I would never see. I had hope."

The doctor leaned back and dropped her hands into her lap. "There was no hope like that when Ga'edus happened. So bigoted, so hateful. We felt it all through the Khala. He believed our people were growing weak, and he blamed the humans as the reason we became 'soft.' Those who agreed followed him, as did those who swayed under his powerful persuasion. He tried to bring the Tal'darim on his side, knowing they would share his mindset. It terrified us when we discovered what he was trying to do. With the Tal'darim, he would be unstoppable. Luckily, their highlord turned him down. I heard through rumor it was because the highlord's first ascendant was preparing to challenge him to Rak'Shir." Weak humor entered the doctor's eyes as she added, "It seems bad timing ended up saving billions of lives."

"Ga'edus blamed the terrans?"

"To the firstborn who have only heard of them, never met them, they are primitive. Philistine, lacking culture. We have one who knows better as our hierarch, but a vast majority of our people still sees them that way. The protoss are strong, but strength and obstinacy are often two edges of the same blade."

Torik leaned back in his chair, his eyes staring up to the ceiling. "Ga'edus," he repeated. "Why is this the first I've heard of him? Where was I all these years?" He sighed and pressed his fingertips against his forehead. "Had the Khala still remained, I could ask a Grand Preserver to recall who I am." His eyes flew open. "Have the Grand Preservers all severed their cords as well?"

"I know of only one Grand Preserver who remains," Dr. Meren answered. "And yes, she was separated from the Khala during the End War as well."

"Sacrilege!" Torik couldn't help but mutter in amazement.

"Desperation demanded it. War is a terrible thing. We are a race that prides itself on its warrior culture, but that does not mean we do not feel the pain and horrors of battle." Dr. Meren stopped typing and turned fully to Torik. "To die a hero is the greatest honor one could achieve, but what often is overlooked is the pain it inflicts onto those who remain." The doctor placed a hand over her chest. "I lost many close friends to Ga'edus and the End War. So has Karax. So has the Hierarch." Dr. Meren paused, and quietly added, "Executor Ariadis lost her father when Aiur fell to the Swarm. He died ensuring that the ship his daughter and several others were aboard left its surface. Post-death, he was awarded the highest honors, but Ariadis has never been quite the same."

Dr. Meren suddenly laughed. It sounded sharp, as though she were trying to cut through the heavy mood. "Why must you have me speak so morosely, Torik? Tomorrow, Karax will have the schematics for your legs ready. I must review them to check that he does not plan to do something foolishly disastrous to your body." She began tapping her fingers together. "Tell me, Torik. Why is it that you are so adamant to join the templars?"

"It is as you said, Doctor. We pride ourselves in our warrior culture."

"That is true, but we are adopting new customs now," Dr. Meren said. "Neither Karax or I are warriors, nor will we ever be. But that does not make us any less worthy—any less protoss."

Torik looked down, unwilling to tell the doctor the complete truth. "Your words are wise," he said. "Thank you. But this is the path I choose to take."

"So shall it be," Dr. Meren replied simply. Suddenly, her eyes turned to the door. "You may come in," she said, though Torik knew she was no longer addressing him.

The door slid open, and quickly Torik lowered his eyes. Just his luck. Of all the individuals to walk through that door, it was her.

"Meren," he heard her say. "I was hoping we could speak in private." Torik felt his body temperature rise.

"I can step out if you like, Executor."

"No," Ariadis said. "Some other time, perhaps."

Before the doors could close behind her, Torik willed himself to look up. "Good night, Executor," he blurted out. The doors shut, but not before he saw Ariadis look over her shoulder.

After a few moments, Dr. Meren echoed Torik's thoughts by saying, "What luck. After I told you about her father, too."

"What did the executor come for?"

"Ah, Torik," Dr. Meren reprimanded gently. "Patient confidentiality. Just like the templars of old, this doctor has her own codes of honor that she must adhere to."

"Yes, of course," Torik replied. He went over to the bed and pulled himself onto it from the chair. "I think I am ready for this day to end."

"Rest well," Dr. Meren said. "I shall dim the lights for you."

The room darkened, though the monitor of Dr. Meren's terminal still offered meek illumination. Lying back, Torik stared up at the ceiling and waited for sleep to overtake him. Today had been mentally taxing, and he dreaded what tomorrow would unleash. His thoughts returned to the outburst he had made to Ariadis. Torik squeezed his eyes shut. Curse him. What a foolish thing to say.

* * *

Marcus blinked. He wasn't sure if he'd heard things correctly, but didn't want to ask the client to repeat himself. According to Jamie, that was a big no-no during negotiations. "That's close to zerg space," he said pointedly in case Robert didn't know.

The extremely rotund man sitting on the other side of the desk delicately puffed his cigar before responding. Marcus watched the ashy end glow orange. "I'm aware," Robert replied, smoke pushed from his lips as he spoke. "But they've been rather docile lately. Haven't heard any reports of a zerg attack in nearly a decade, except for that one last year. But those people were idiots, and you two aren't like that. Just keep your distance, don't destroy anything of theirs, and you'll be golden."

"We can meet the contracted amount without having to go to Sh'lera," Marcus said. "I just think it's too risky."

"It's the closest deposit, and I'm not willing to pay extra for minerals from anywhere else."

"It won't be by much," Jamie said. "Five percent mark-up, tops."

"Absolutely not. Listen, guys," Robert said, leaning onto the desk towards the two men. "I'm already on one hell of a tight budget, and if I drive production costs up any more, I'll be in hot water."

"Come on, Rob. How about—."

"Jamie. Marcus. I've got other contractors on hold that would be willing to fly to Sh'lera in a heartbeat. The only reason I'm asking for your names on this document is because I know you've got a little girl to look after, Jamie." Robert paused to puff on the cigar again, and then tapped the crumbling ash into a nearby tray. "Sh'lera won't give you any trouble if you keep to yourself. Grab those minerals and go. The zerg won't pay you any mind."

Marcus and Jamie gave each other knowing looks. The contract was signed. Sh'lera it was, then. They left the office with polite farewells and saved the grumbling until they were safely in the privacy of the Caravan.

"Says he's trying to help Becca but won't hesitate to risk her dad's skin," Jamie grumbled as he fired up the Caravan's engines.

"Did he say that?" Marcus sneered as he shrugged off his vest and threw it over the back of his chair. "Must've missed it. I couldn't pay much attention while getting smacked by the planets orbiting him."

"Cheap shot, Marc," Jamie chuckled. "We're being assholes. Work is work, man. Let's just hurry up and put this behind us."

"Seriously, though. Are we actually heading towards zerg space?"

"With the time frame Rob's given us, I don't think we're going to get those minerals anywhere else," Jamie replied. "Besides, we'll eat up what little profits we're getting in fuel if we do."

"Fantastic," Marcus groaned. "I wonder if our defenses can stand up to even a mild zerg attack."

"The Caravan is small and quick. I think evasion would be our best bet if worse comes to worst."

"Can it outrun a mutalisk swarm?" Marcus challenged.

Jamie hesitated. "Well… let's hope we don't have to find out."

"Buckle up, kids. We're going to Sh'lera."

Travel to their destination, without warp, would take only a few hours at most. Sh'lera was a hunk of rock that was too pitiful to be formally classified as a planet. It was part of a very small system that consisted of one other uninhabitable planet. And as if being near zerg space wasn't dangerous enough, the center of the planet was occupied by a bloated red giant on the last leg of its celestial life. Marcus and Jamie weren't too keen on being nearby when it finally collapsed into a radioactive nebula.

As the silence in the cockpit drifted on, Marcus found himself thinking about Torik. It had been a week since he'd dropped the legless protoss back off on his home world. How was he doing? Perhaps a trip to Aiur was underway, and Marcus was willing to withstand Jamie's bellyaching for the visit. That is, he thought dryly, if they weren't devoured by the zerg first.

"System's up ahead," Jamie said. "We'll be there in maybe… thirty minutes? Did you check everything in the mining bay?"

"Did that before we left," Marcus answered, staring absently out the windshield. "Jay, you ever seen zerg before?"

"Aside from the stuffed ones in the museum? No."

"Same. Man, we are so out of touch with the universe. We really should live a little."

"Are you saying that we need to get up close and personal with the zerg? That's how most people _stop_ living a little."

"Nah, man, that's not it. It's just that—." Marcus sat up. "You know, I thought starting up this mining gig was going to let us see it all. And don't get me wrong, we've had some pretty crazy runs. But for some reason, it just doesn't feel like it's enough."

"Marc," Jamie said as the Caravan gently veered. "Sometimes 'not enough' is enough. We've got a ship and work. And people waiting for us at home when the day's over."

"People waiting for _you_ ," Marcus snapped, feeling an old wound reopening. Jamie realized his mistake and stayed quiet. Heaving a sigh, Marcus looked out the windshield again. "Never mind. You're right. Let's get this done and go ho—." He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Sh'lera's surface. "Wait, Jay… you see that?"


	5. Chapter 5

Jamie looked just as it disappeared. It was like one of those dumb tropes that filmmakers loved to use, and it made Marcus want to punch the dashboard in frustration. It had been _right_ there!

"See what? The sad little hunk of rock that's carrying our next paycheck?"

"God damn it, you're not going to believe me when I say it," Marcus growled. "But there was a ship down there!"

Jamie paused, and afforded Sh'lera another look. "Ship?"

"Yeah, it was right there." Marcus pointed through the windshield. "Right next to that pair of craters."

"What the hell kind of ship would be on Sh'lera? It's private property."

"You think that's going to stop anyone who really wants to be down there?"

"Well, where did your ship go then? I don't see anything down there now, and we would've noticed something taking off."

Marcus stared at the rock beneath them. He was absolutely certain of what he'd seen. It was kind of hard to miss an entire ship on that tiny body. "Don't know," he mumbled. "Listen, all I'm saying is that we ought to be careful down there."

"Whoa, Marc, you're starting to sound like me and that's scary."

Marcus was on high alert the entire time they were on Sh'lera. The Caravan hovered over the mineral fields and went to work extracting the blue crystals. Nothing unusual happened, and that's what made it unbearable. Both men were antsy. Their eyes darted from the window to the mineral counter on the dashboard, watching its number change like a stopwatch. Tapping the gun in his holster, Marcus recalled the look of the ship. He'd only seen it from a distance, but he'd noticed something very strange from the looks of it and he couldn't put a finger on why that was.

That is, until they lifted away from Sh'lera with their minerals. Marcus heard Jamie exhale a loud sigh a relief and immediately sat up. "Fuck!"

The residual anxiety made Jamie actually jump. "What?" he demanded.

Marcus turned to his partner. "That ship," he said, his mind whirling from the outrageous realization he had come to. "Jay, I think that was a protoss ship."

* * *

Construction of the prosthetic legs took several days. Torik had to undergo several scans in the meantime. But other than that, he had little else to do. Since his first day on Aiur, the Daelaam had not spoken to him—either it had lost interest or forgotten. Torik didn't fault it. There was an entire race to run, and it could not afford to focus too much attention on one crippled pariah. Besides, Torik wasn't looking to fall under the praetor's condescending gaze again.

Between working with Karax on the prosthetics and seeing to her other duties, Dr. Meren hardly had the time to offer Torik company. Instead, Torik spent much of his time exploring the Citadel. He had gotten used to the looks.

At the center of the grand city was a plaza. A large fountain stood in the wide space—a circular pool with five jets spaced evenly within it. The jets threw up tall spires of water and, within the middle, stood the colossal statues of three figures. Every member of the firstborn knew of these three individuals, and Torik was no exception.

The deformed protoss looked up at the immortal faces of Adun, Tassadar, and Zeratul. Torik thought the dark templar's place here seemed strange, given his people's controversial opinion of him. No doubt the hierarch had ignored the animosity and insisted that the late templar be included in this tribute to heroes. Given all that Zeratul had done in his last years, Torik was in line with Artanis's views.

The three statues had their heads raised, their unbroken gazes pointed towards the horizon. The gemstones in their eyes glimmered in the warm sun, giving them an essence of life.

Looking up from within their shadows, Torik couldn't help but wonder what these paragons would've thought of him. The pessimist inside him moped that they would have been ashamed to have one such as he amongst their people. They had done great deeds during their lives—exemplars of what all protoss should strive to be. That is, save for one that was too skinny and handicapped to even cross the street on his own.

Bah! Torik shook his head in disgust. Enough with this self-pity. It helped no one—least of all him. Torik wondered if Dr. Meren needed him for another scan. Then again, she would have transmitted a message to his chair if she did.

Torik backed away from the fountain and turned himself around. Someone was standing a short distance away, watching him. Torik nearly jumped out of his chair when he saw her. "M-Matriarch!" he stammered, feeling his hearts hammering against his ribcage.

"Forgive me, Torik. I did not mean to startle you," Vorazun replied. Her green eyes looked conflicted as she studied him carefully. "But… I feel as though I have seen you before."

Torik blinked. "And I you, Matriarch."

"Is that so?" Vorazun kept her gaze steady as she asked, "Torik, when you were before the Daelaam, did you speak the complete truth?"

His hearts, having just started to recover, quickened again. He had not lied, but the accusation made him nervous all the same. "I did."

"Artanis trusts you," Vorazun said. "And so far, you have not given me any reason not to. I just cannot understand how you came to be."

Torik's eyes drifted past the matriarch. They settled on the distant horizon. "Perhaps the answers lie not here, not in Dr. Meren's labs. They are somewhere in the stars… in the Lontimar system," he realized softly.

"Torik," Vorazun spoke up, cutting through his thoughts. "I speak from experience—sometimes it is better not to dwell on the past. Now is your time to bring forth a new life."

He was reminded of his desire. Torik gave a courteous nod. "Thank you, Matriarch."

"Good day to you, Torik."

As soon as he was alone again, he looked back to the statues. Silently, he implored the honored dead for what to do. There was no response.

* * *

The day had finally come. Torik was nervous. Understandably so, Dr. Meren thought. Trepidation was a common response to the breaching of a new frontier. But she and Karax had worked tirelessly for this, and she couldn't help but feel a little excited.

The legs had been designed to attach to Torik's appendages both physically and psionically. Dr. Meren had Torik practice psionic attachment beforehand and took readings of the extent of his power. His psionic capabilities were below average, but acceptable.

In addition, the prosthetics had mechanical clamps and stretched and tightened as naturally as muscle fiber. It was an ingenious design, and Dr. Meren had expected nothing less from Karax.

The attachment procedure took place in a bay within the phase-smith facility, though Dr. Meren had gotten her equipment hauled in just in case. She wanted to monitor Torik's psionic readings throughout the process.

Artanis had requested to witness the procedure. Normally, Dr. Meren did not want an audience, but she couldn't deny the hierarch. Torik was brought into the bay, and when he saw the prosthetics he paused in wonder. Dr. Meren was reminded of why she did what she did. "Remember, Torik," she told him as she walked him to his designated spot in the bay. "We must go about this slowly. One step at a time—quite literally. Your body will need time to learn how to walk."

"Of course, Doctor."

"And then we shall see about turning you into a templar," she added lightheartedly. She took a step back. Torik glanced at her. "I'm right here," she reminded him.

The prosthetics drifted up from the ground, lifted by a magnetic suspension. They tilted until their ends were pointed towards Torik's shortened legs. The mechanical clamps widened like petals on a flower. When they met flesh, they draped gently over Torik's skin. Dr. Meren saw them already responding fluidly to the tensing of the muscle underneath them. Torik closed his eyes. "Have you established the psionic bond?" Dr. Meren asked.

"Yes."

Dr. Meren pulled the data from the terminal into a smaller screen in front of her. Indeed, the psionic readings were showing Torik's usual levels. She looked back at Karax and nodded. "The attachment is complete."

"Well done, Karax," Artanis praised.

The phase-smith looked pleased. "Thank you, Hierarch."

Dr. Meren looked back at Torik. He had reopened his eyes, but did not move. "Torik?" Dr. Meren ventured. "The prosthetics are fully attached. How are you feeling?"

"Strange," Torik admitted.

"Strange how? Talk to me."

"I have legs," Torik said, sounding dazed. "I have feet. I-I thought I wouldn't recognize this sensation… Doctor." His head turned towards her. "How was it that you felt when you finally stepped back onto Aiur? Were… certain things dredged up when you once again touched its soil and felt its warm breeze?"

This wasn't at all the reaction Dr. Meren had expected. "Torik?"

Suddenly, Torik's head jerked. He looked, startled, into empty air. "Did you hear that?" Dr. Meren glanced up. She hadn't heard anything. This was all beginning to worry her. She looked over her shoulder, and then back at Torik. "Perhaps it is better if we postpone this procedure—," she began.

 _"No,"_ came the forceful response, so uncharacteristic of the protoss it came from. It was as though something foreign had taken over him. Then, as soon as it had come, it was gone. "Forgive me, Doctor," Torik suddenly said, the gentleness returning to his voice. "I… I simply have been overwhelmed. Please, help me stand."

"Of course," Dr. Meren replied. "Do let me know if you experience any discomfort." She held out a hand, and Torik took it. In his nervousness, he held on with a crushing grip. Dr. Meren tightened her arm as she pulled him up. She saw him rise from the transport chair—from the seat he had, until now, been confined in. She pulled him up.

Torik was standing.

Dr. Meren felt as though her hearts could have burst with joy. "Torik!" she exclaimed happily. "Look at you!"

He turned to look at her, and Dr. Meren felt her delight disappear in an instant. The one who looked at her now was not Torik. There was someone else in those eyes.

Dr. Meren didn't know what happened in the next heartbeat. Something hit her—like a punch to her entire body. Her feet were no longer on the ground and she felt the sickening feeling of free fall. Except she wasn't falling—rather, she had been thrown. Her body flew across the bay and slammed into the wall. She hit the ground, struggling to collect her thoughts through the pain.

"Meren!" She felt herself being lifted and propped against someone. She looked up through squinted eyes at Karax.

"What—?"

A machine nearby suddenly shattered in an explosion of sparks and metal. Karax flinched and stooped over to shield the doctor. Reaching out, Dr. Meren squeezed his arm. She became aware that the entire bay was shuddering.

 _"Artanis!"_ The roar was petrifying. As Karax straightened up, Dr. Meren looked past him. Torik had turned to face the hierarch, his hands clenched and shoulders bared back. To Dr. Meren's horror, she saw that Artanis had one of his psi-blades unsheathed.

"Hierarch, no!"

"Stand down!" Artanis boomed.

Undeterred, Torik took a step towards him. _"I remember you."_ The voice was his, though it was filled wit an unfamiliar rage. _"I have not forgotten what you—."_ Suddenly, he doubled over and grabbed his head with a shout. He stumbled and buckled down onto his knees. "Stop!" Torik cried. "Get them off! _Get them off!"_

In a flash, Artanis appeared next to him. Dr. Meren felt dread clutch her chest when she saw him swing his arm. But Artanis had sheathed his psi-blade, and only the gauntlet made contact with Torik's head. Under the hierarch's blow, Torik collapsed onto the ground. The bay stilled.

Deaf to his protests, Dr. Meren pushed away from Karax. Quickly, she scrambled up onto her feet. She ignored the aches that clawed at her body and hurried over to Torik. "You need not have done that!" she argued as she crouched by the unconscious protoss.

Artanis didn't answer her. He turned back to the phase-smith. "Karax," the hierarch addressed. "Is everything under control?"

"I… I do not know, Hierarch," Karax replied, sounding flustered. "It was as though he—."

"That is enough, Phase-smith Karax. Save speculation for until we have evidence," Artanis interrupted sternly. He looked down at Dr. Meren. "Doctor, lock him in stasis."

Shocked, Dr. Meren looked up. "Hierarch!"

"You saw what he did," Artanis said. "I am not certain if he aimed to hurt you or did so by accident, but he must be contained until we know. After he is secured, I want you to learn of what transpired." The hierarch looked visibly shaken up. Dr. Meren lowered her eyes back to Torik.

"As you wish, Hierarch."

Next to her, a destroyed machine buzzed. It leaked sparks as though bleeding.

* * *

This had something to do with the Khala. But there was too much uncertainty within Artanis, so he called upon a trusted friend. Even though she, like all of them, had long since broken away from the Khala, she had spent a substantial amount of her life mastering it. There was no one better to consult about this.

She was already there in the small council room. If Rohana were to be declared one thing, it would be punctual.

The door slid open and two individuals entered. Artanis liked this council room—it was small enough to provide a cozy meeting space. The hierarch favored close, personal conversations over sitting at the heads of large chambers, but the latter was necessary of one in his position.

Karax followed behind him, and the door shut as soon as they stepped through. Rohana rose to her feet at the sight of them. The constant wave of psionic pulses emitting from her body wafted the streams of gold cloth over her shoulders. Artanis gestured to her to sit back down. She did, and the two men joined her at the round table.

"Hierarch," she greeted. "What is it that you have called me for?"

"Earlier today, I bore witness to something very… unsettling," Artanis replied slowly He carefully measured his thoughts. "Tell me, Rohana, does the Khala still exist?"

"Khala?" Rohana echoed. After a pause to deliberate, she replied, "No, I do not believe it does. When you had the last of the Khalai sever their cords, the Khala was lost. With no mind left to uphold it, it dissipated into nothingness. Once gone, it cannot be retrieved—not without great effort." Rohana delicately touched her two hands together. "I thought you preferred that there not be a Khala, Hierarch. What have you witnessed that makes you ask this?"

"I… I believe—or I thought I saw evidence that the Khala still remains. But as my closest advisor, I trust in your words."

"What was this evidence?"

Artanis looked to Karax. The phase-smith met his eyes with worry. He had seen it too. "Someone being channeled," Artanis answered.

"Channeled through the Khala?" Suddenly, Rohana's blue eyes widened. "Amon?"

"No," the hierarch dispelled quickly. "Not him. Amon is no more."

"Then who?"

"I am not sure," Artanis said. "What transpired is still a mystery. I have Dr. Meren looking into Torik's condition." He looked back at the phase-smith. "How is she, Karax?"

"She is fine," Karax answered, and Artanis could hear relief in his voice. "No damage aside from a mighty bruise."

"That is comforting to hear," the hierarch said. "Inside the bay, you were my second set of eyes. I may have interpreted the phenomenon incorrectly. What did you see?"

"I too believe that the Khala no longer remains," Karax replied. "But you are right—the one who lashed out at Meren was not Torik." The phase-smith paused, and then continued, "My thoughts return to the moment before Torik stood. To what he said to Meren."

Artanis remembered as well. "Is it possible… do you mean to say that—?" The door to the room opened, and the links in Artanis's mind were broken. He looked over. A templar stood in the doorway.

"Forgive my interruption, Hierarch, but an urgent message has arrived for you."

Artanis blinked wearily. Since becoming hierarch to a rebirthed Aiur, every other message he had been receiving came in classified as 'urgent.' He had long since grown skeptical. "What is it?"

"It comes from the Tal'darim highlord."

"Alarak?" Rohana said incredulously.

That did in fact make it quite urgent. Alarak had made it quite clear that he wanted nothing to do with the Daelaam and Aiur. Any degree of closeness stole from his power, and Alarak was unwilling to forfeit even the smallest margin.

This was a message that sprung from nowhere, and Artanis was worried. He excused himself from the council room. Within his personal study, Artanis retrieved the message. A very brief line of words appeared on the projection before him.

 _Tell your thieving matriarch that I would like a word_. Alarak rarely contacted him, but when he did his messages were frustratingly short. It was as though the highlord couldn't be bothered to put in the effort to articulate himself a bit more.

After reading the message, Artanis called Vorazun to the Hall. He didn't like bothering her at this hour, but this was a matter that could not wait. When the matriarch arrived, Artanis showed her the message.

Vorazun's emerald eyes narrowed. "Curious," she remarked in a thin voice, "that Alarak, highlord of the _Tal'darim_ , should call me a thief."

"Do you know of what he refers to?"

"I have not the slightest clue," Vorazun admitted. She sighed heavily. "Must we contact him, Hierarch? He is unbearable to listen to."

"This sounds as though it has the potential to sprout conflict," Artanis said. "Our society is young—it is still in the stages of reconstruction. I cannot afford tension with the Tal'darim right now. We must hear him out."

"Very well," Vorazun replied exasperatingly.

Direct contact with the highlord was impossible—not without going through several layers of his subordinates first. But Artanis found that with a stony glare and a forceful introduction, he was able to procure himself a shortcut. One did not keep the hierarch of the Daelaam waiting, though Alarak would've found no problem in doing that had he not been expecting Artanis's call.

Vorazun had chosen to stay off to the side of the transmission field, wanting only to appear when necessary. Artanis watched as Alarak's pale face appeared on the other end of the transmission.

"Artanis, it has been _too_ long," Alarak said with a cruel imitation of camaraderie. It sounded more like a jeer. "Your eyes look more sunken than last I recall. Has rebuilding your precious Aiur been that much an effort?"

"Leave the jests to younglings, Alarak," Artanis replied sharply. "You know why I have called."

"Of course, old friend," Alarak said. "But given who I speak to now, it is clear you did not thoroughly read my message. How poor, especially since I graciously chose to expand my word count this time."

"Matriarch Vorazun is here with me now," Artanis said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Vorazun uncross her arms. Though she remained silent, he could practically hear her groan. She stepped over to Artanis's side. Unwilling to let Alarak get the first word in, she quickly said, "I do not enjoy having libel thrown at me, Alarak. Explain the meaning behind your accusation."

Alarak regarded her icily for a second. Then an image appeared in his place. It seemed to be the still of a recording. It was the inside of a nexus. "This was taken from a monitor drone within one of my colonies on Xil." The recording was played. The drone drifted lazily through the corridors of the nexus. Up ahead, there was a brilliant flash of light from around the corner. Artanis recognized the light to be psi-blades colliding. The drone quickened and flew around the corner. It found Tal'darim lying dead.

There was movement—translucent swirls shifting through the air. Smoke. It suddenly whirled, as if pulled, into one spot. A woman appeared from within the spiraling tendrils. Her viridescent eyes fell on the drone. The air glowed green from her psi-blade, and that was the last of the recording.

Artanis looked to Vorazun. The matriarch's gaze was still fixated on the screen. There was no doubt about it. From the way she was dressed, to the way she had channeled the powers of the Void—the woman who had attacked the Tal'darim nexus had been of the Nerazim tribe.

Alarak returned to the transmission, and he had a look of haughty displeasure. "No one was found alive, and the ones responsible pillaged that colony to its bare bones. My people were there simply to settle, and I am not pleased by this act of cowardice. Now it is your turn to explain yourself, Matriarch."

Vorazun's brow furrowed in genuine perplexity. "I did not recognize her."

"That tells me nothing. Do you think that absolves you of anything? Try again."

"Highlord," Vorazun said firmly. "What has happened to your colony is unfortunate, but I did not authorize any of my people to go to Xil. Whoever has done this is a criminal to all of us."

"Is that so?" Alarak tested. "I would demand proof, but I know there is no merit in asking for that which does not exist. Your excuse stands for now, but I have this matter under heavy investigation. Should I find any indication that you are indeed responsible…" Alarak's eyes narrowed into fiery slits, and he leaned forward. "Then I would be very careful if I were you."

"Your words are noted."

"Good day, Matriarch. Hierarch." The highlord's tone had become eerily friendly. The transmission ended abruptly.

As soon as Alarak was gone, Vorazun let out a drawn-out groan. She reached up and pressed her temple. Artanis was aware of the matriarch's propensity for headaches, and nothing triggered them better than the Tal'darim highlord. Artanis himself found it impossible to communicate with Alarak for any length of time without feeling at least one negative emotion.

"Is Dr. Meren busy?" Vorazun grumbled.

"She is."

"I see. I feel I need to lie down. No more disturbances within the next hour please, Hierarch." Artanis watched Vorazun hurry out of his study. He sympathized with her exhaustion, but there was no time for him to rest.

* * *

Logic would have told him that what he was experiencing now was impossible, but there was seldom logic in dreams. Torik stood before it, gazing at it with a strange fondness. Outside, the sandstorm raged. The desert planet's arid air grated at his skin, but it mattered little.

Torik didn't know where he was, or what the thing in front of him was. All he knew was that it brought about within him a deep satisfaction. Let the storm outside rage. Let it disguise this location. Torik looked up and saw the word engraved in its surface: Inht.

When he awoke, he was no longer on a desert planet. He remembered that he was on Aiur. And upon seeing the container that held him, Torik realized that he was imprisoned. His body touched nothing. The stasis pod kept him helplessly suspended in the air.

Horrific memories returned to him—the events that took place at the phase-smith facility. Torik knew what he had done, though not why he had done them. Someone alerted Dr. Meren that he was awake, and she appeared. Seeing her sent a wave of guilt crashing over him. He found himself unable to meet her eyes. Torik looked down and saw that the prosthetics had been removed.

"They are gone," he noted.

"Yes," Dr. Meren replied. "You shouted for them to be detached." She moved closer to the containment. "What happened, Torik? Even now, I struggle to understand."

"As do I, Doctor. Forgive me for what I have done."

"I do not want an apology, Torik. I want answers."

Quickly, Torik searched his mind. "I… I felt pain. Unbearable pain." There was no Khala to let Dr. Meren know that he was lying.

"Pain?" Dr. Meren deliberated. "And it was this pain that caused you to act in the way you did?"

"I did not know what was happening to me."

"I see I will need to speak to Karax," Dr. Meren said, "and figure out the source of this pain." She stepped up to the pod and placed a hand onto it. The containment field glowed underneath her hand. "This was the order of the hierarch," she told him. "But I promise you, I will have you out of stasis as soon as I can." She took her hand away and turned.

"I cannot stay on Aiur," Torik suddenly said. Dr. Meren looked back.

"Why not?"

"I am unable to stand. I will never be a templar." Torik looked up to the ceiling. He knew the stars were behind them. "Until I learn who I am, I will never be at peace with myself. My identity is not here—it is out there. Besides…" Torik motioned a hand towards the stasis pod. "Hierarch Artanis no longer trusts me, it seems. I am sure he will not object to me staying away from his people."

"Artanis does not see you that way," Dr. Meren contended. "This is merely a precaution. The hierarch wants to see you rejoin your kind as much as I do. You are one of the firstborn, Torik. Do not forget that."

"Thank you, Doctor," Torik replied sadly. "But this is the path I choose to take."


	6. Chapter 6

Just like his first day on Aiur, the Daelaam asked him questions. Though this time, only a few members came individually to see Torik in his stasis cell. Among them was Artanis. Though the hierarch approached him with no accusations, Torik felt meek and criminal all the same.

And once again he found himself unable to give Artanis the answers he wanted. As though still bonded through the Khala, he could almost feel the hierarch's frustration though Artanis disguised it well.

Finally, Torik admitted something. He told the hierarch that, while in the bay, he had heard something that no one else could.

"What was it?"

"A voice," Torik answered. "Though I did not recognize it. It was brief, fleeting—I almost assumed I had imagined it."

"Did it tell you anything?"

"It spoke, but I interpreted no words. It was only a flicker, like the final bit of a faulty transmission." Torik grew nervous when the hierarch began to slowly pace. His doubt told him that he should've kept that detail a secret. Glancing to the door, Torik wondered if he would ever be free again to leave. First the breakdown at the phase-smith facility, and now he had admitted to Artanis of hearing voices that no one else could. It would be a miracle if the hierarch ever let him out of stasis lock.

"As much as I fight to understand, I cannot," Artanis finally said, his steps slowing. "And though I wish I could take this chance to discover who remains within the remnants of the Khala, I cannot turn a blind eye to the dangers that keeping you connected present." He turned back to the stasis cell. "Torik, I offer you a chance to shorten your term within this cell. All I ask is that you disconnect any lingering bond you have to the Khala by removing the last of your nerve cords."

Torik was silent as he mulled over the hierarch's proposal. There was no harm in abiding, he figured. With no other mind to connect to, there was no point in keeping what remained of his nerve cords intact. And besides, Torik thought, perhaps it would bring him one step closer to being one with his people. Given what he was asked to do, the notion was ironic.

"I will obey, Hierarch."

Artanis nodded. "Then I will call in a doctor to begin the procedure," he said.

"Dr. Meren?"

"No. Meren has informed me that she is seeing to another patient this afternoon," the hierarch replied. "Worry not, Torik. You are in good hands."

It wasn't exactly what Torik wanted to hear while confined in stasis.

* * *

The blue projection only showed the head, shoulders, and upper chest of a templar. He wore an ornate band over his brow and a gold extension on his chin—symbols of the warrior caste he belonged to. His nerve cords curved from the back of his head, intact. Gold brackets dotted each cord—some were decorative, others repaired the damage that had been sustained through battle.

It was quiet in her quarters. Ariadis watched the projection with tired, nostalgic eyes. She had only ever seen very little of her father.

Because of their longevity, the protoss were not a prolific people. But constant warring with the zerg and kalathi had once dwindled their numbers to the point where the Conclave instigated a breeding program. Within the fortress-city of Khor-shakal, the judicators chose several thousand templars who were tasked with the requirement of siring at least one youngling.

Tharuul had been among the selected, but unlike his brethren, he remained and waited while his seed gestated. Blood ties were a thin, barely-acknowledged notion among the Khalai. Family was not as sacred to them as it was to the Nerazim, but still Tharuul persisted until the birth of his offspring.

The Conclave had aimed to deter him from being attached to the youngling by informing him that it was female. They instead encouraged him to sire again in the hopes of producing a more promising result.

Tharuul had attempted only once more just to assuage his leaders. This time, he was unsuccessful and had decided to return to his daughter. At first the Conclave forbade it, telling him that a templar of his might ought not to waste time on the youngling—the assigned caretakers and doctors would do that. But Tharuul refused to let the matter rest and continued to argue until the Conclave finally begrudged him simply to quiet him down.

And so Ariadis was given the first memories of her father—the quiet templar who shared with her so many thoughts and emotions through the Khala. Through mind-melds, Tharuul gave her his strongest memories—his templar training and the prideful victories he had achieved throughout his life. He taught her humility with the painful memories of losing his brethren to valiant sacrifices. "Our lives are for Aiur," he had told her. "And for the Firstborn."

Determined to fill in the footsteps left by her father, Ariadis had expressed to him her desire to be a templar. At that time, there were very few female templar, and even fewer novitiates. This, paired with the heavy doubt that Ariadis would survive training let alone battle, filled all minds but one with reluctance.

The executor knew her fate would have been so very different had that one templar not fought to be with his youngling. Ariadis had only permitted to train because of her father's deal with the Conclave. If his daughter was to join the templars, they had told him, then Tharuul would relinquish all rights to raise her.

She had resisted against his decision upon learning of it, but Tharuul had quieted her down. "Remember the things I have shown you," he told her. "Both the pride and the humility. The flat plains of Cithral and sunny hilltops of Aldera where you will be forged into a greater templar than I. These will become _your_ memories."

Before they had parted, Tharuul had said one last thing to her. "Little comet," he called her. "One day, you will be templar and the Conclave will have no authority to keep us apart. I will wait for that day."

The projection, defining the face of the one she remembered so well, was still. It would play if activated, being one of the many message projections Tharuul had smuggled to her while she had trained. Ariadis blinked her weary eyes, teetering between the decision of playing it or not. She had heard every one of his messages countless times to the point where the meaning in his words had grown stale. Still, there was comfort in his voice. That, and sorrow.

Her choice was made for her when someone knocked at her door. It had come like clockwork, and Ariadis already knew whom it was.

Dr. Meren stepped in and paused as her eyes fell on the projection of Tharuul. "Executor," she addressed formally, "forgive me. Is this a bad time?"

"No," Ariadis replied, swiping her hand over the projecting crystal. Immediately, the blue form disappeared. "Besides, I have delayed this treatment for long enough. I'm starting to feel the consequences."

Dr. Meren nodded. "Shall I warp my equipment in, Executor?" A small blue gem tucked into the chest of her robes glowed and extended out a small, holographic screen before her. "It should only take a moment."

Ariadis nodded. She figured walking to the doctor's laboratory held too much risk of being seen. As Dr. Meren calibrated the warp through the small screen, Ariadis asked, "I heard of your incident at the facility."

"Ah," Dr. Meren replied. "That…"

"I am glad to see you are well."

"Your concern is most kind, Executor."

"And what of… Torik?"

Ariadis saw the doctor's brow furrow slightly. "The hierarch has him in stasis," she answered.

"Does he suspect Torik of malice?" All Ariadis had heard was that the crippled protoss had 'lashed out.' Though, to be honest, she thought there had to be some misunderstanding. There was no way that skinny, legless protoss could be capable of doing that much damage to the doctor and the bay.

"Apparently," Dr. Meren replied. The screen disappeared and the gem dimmed. Then, in the space next to her, lines of blue light began to cut vertically through the air. As they stretched longer, white forms began to form within them. Blue and white light combined only briefly for one last, brilliant flash before vanishing and leaving a hovering machine and drone in its wake.

Immediately, the drone drifted over to Ariadis. It emitted a gentle beam of light that scanned over her upper arm before stopping at a particular area. The beam flashed.

The machine by Dr. Meren suddenly ejected a small vial. Within was a small cylinder with a clear, viscous substance. Dr. Meren took the vial and fed it into a small port on the drone. Then, within the beam, a small needle protruded from the drone. It drifted closer to the executor and, with a quick jab, inserted the needle into her arm.

The injection only lasted a few seconds, and then the drone backed away. The beam changed color, and Ariadis felt a series of hot and cold sensations flash quickly on her skin as the small puncture wound was sealed.

Ariadis reached up and rested a hand gingerly over her arm. "What else is troubling you, Meren?"

"Executor?"

"One does not need the Khala to see the burden that weighs your shoulders down, Doctor."

Dr. Meren hesitated. "Executor…," she said slowly. "I feel as though I have failed him."

"Failed?"

"I promised him that he would be walking by now," Dr. Meren continued. "But after what happened in the bay, he refuses to reattach the implants. He believes he will never be a templar."

"Templar… he expressed his wishes to join the rank?"

"Yes. But, if I am to be completely honest," Dr. Meren said, "I did not think it was achievable. Not because of his physique, but because of who he is. Torik is gentle, but he sees that aspect of himself as a flaw."

Ariadis lowered her hand from her arm. She looked back at the projection crystal. Though it was dim, she could still see his face. "Where is he now, Meren?"

"The containment block," Dr. Meren answered. "At the southeast border of the Citadel." Upon seeing Ariadis lift her arm to tap on her gauntlet, she continued, "Executor?"

The blue streams of her warp were already starting to engulf her as Ariadis looked back at the doctor and said, "Everyone deserves a chance, Meren."

* * *

When next Torik awoke, his nerve cords were gone. His head was groggy, and he was still trying to clear his heavy eyes when the doctor told him, "The hierarch has ordered that your term be shortened to three remaining days."

"As per my request, he is to be released now," someone spoke up. The doctor turned around.

"But Hierarch Artanis—."

"Has heard what I have proposed and agrees," Ariadis cut in. "Release Torik from stasis."

"As… as you wish, Executor."

"And vacate the room, please. I would like to speak to Torik in private."

With a nod, the doctor tapped a brief command into the stasis cell's control panel and exited. The stasis around Torik quickly flickered off. No longer suspended, he fell forward and hit the ground with a terse grunt. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Ariadis stepped up to him.

"Is this pity, Executor?" he asked.

"Do not think me like the praetor, Torik," Ariadis replied. As she spoke, something warped in next to her. Torik finally looked up and saw his transport chair. It lowered to the ground, and the executor stepped back. With his arms, Torik pulled himself onto the chair. He felt it connect with one of his shorted nerve cords and rose back up from the ground.

"Then why do you do this? You mentioned a proposal with the hierarch."

"Meren has told me of your desire to return to the Lontimar System," Ariadis said. "And once again, you reach for a goal that is too high above your head." Torik looked at her. "How did you expect to get there? To get off of Aiur?"

He paused. Up until now, he hadn't really thought much of those details. "I plan to contact Marcus," he said.

"That terran is not returning to Aiur. You will be provided a ship, as well as a supervisor…"

"I do not need—."

"That will be me."

This made Torik pipe down quickly. "Why?"

"Once, a wise templar showed me the importance of second chances. I know what it is like to be imperfect."

Torik was skeptical. One such as the executor seemed incapable of imperfection. He suspected her empathy was synthetic. "What do you mean?"

"Not now, Torik. I must prepare a preliminary report for the Daelaam before we leave. Our departure will be in two days—that should give you and Meren plenty of time to ready any necessary arrangements. I shall contact the doctor now, and then you and her can take care of the rest."

There was a pause, and finally Torik found enough within him to say, "Thank you, Executor."

"Be ready in two days."

When the executor had gone, Torik took a moment to take it all in. Just him and Ariadis—well, he couldn't have asked for better. But he was nervous. It would only be the two of them and, well, he wouldn't know what to do.

 _Admiral Ariadis… now executor._ Torik flinched and looked around. No one was around him, and he already knew that. He'd heard that voice just once before. Only this time, he understood it wasn't a voice. He wasn't listening to words articulated by another. It came from his own head—his own thoughts.

Severing his cords had not been the solution. Inherently, Torik already knew this though he did not tell the hierarch. And if he did now, the Daelaam would never let him leave Aiur.

Perhaps there was no harm in keeping this a little secret, he figured.

 _No harm at all_.

* * *

The Rust Ship was a real gem of a place, situated on a stabilized hunk of rock just outside the Sara System's asteroid belt. It was the seediest tavern Marcus had ever gone to, which was why he kept coming back. It was a popular place for those wanting to steer clear from the watchful eye of the law. And, infamous for its lack of carding, the Rust Ship was a gold mine for minors keen on going out and getting drunk. Marcus was really going to miss the place once its karma caught up to it.

Tonight, there was an impromptu poker game underway. Marcus never turned away from a game, even if the competition this time was made up largely of mercenaries. Jamie, predictably, had chosen to sit out and was at the counter with the other losers—probably chatting up the bartender about something boring.

As the dealer shuffled the deck in preparation of the next round, Marcus shot a relaxed smile at his opposition across the table. She looked back, her face serenely amused though her eyes—or rather, eye—were wild. Her glowing artificial eye and flame-pink hair stood out harshly in the dimly lit tavern. The dealer finished shuffling the cards and slid the deck over to Marcus to cut. He did, passing the deck back to have the cards dealt out.

Despite his cool composure, Marcus could've popped if someone poked him with a needle given the amount of nervous pressure that had built up inside of him. Mira Han scared the hell out of him. All night, she had been pleasant, even downright charming. But Marcus knew better than to mistake her for some fickle chick. As if her unorthodox appearance wasn't telling enough, there was an obvious reason why she was the kingpin of one of the most ruthless mercenary groups in the Koprulu Sector. Anyone who had earned death sentences across twelve systems wasn't to be fucked with.

But Marcus had a reputation to uphold, and he thanked every lucky star in his sky that he was on Mira's good side. He broke his gaze away from hers as his two personal cards were slid to him. He saw Mira take her heavy boots from the table as she was dealt her hole cards.

With an arm draped carelessly over the back of her scratched wooden chair, Mira peeked at her cards, and then pinned them back flat on the table. Marcus watched her lean back, lift her legs, and plop them back on the table. It was a bit more than the average poker face, but Marcus still had no idea what to make of it. Finally, he lifted the corners of his own cards. Two eights—one spade and one heart. This could be either very good or very bad. The other four men—two of them Mira's own mercs—did the same.

Ignoring the usual rules, the first bet was given to the top dog at the table. But apparently Mira wasn't quite ready to name her bet. Instead, she toyed with the pin on one of the grenades strapped across her chest. With each flick, the pin was pulled dangerously loose. Unable to help himself, Marcus swallowed.

"Markie, dear, you're rather cozy with those protoss, aren't you?"

"Sure," Marcus replied. "Everyone's got a need for minerals, Mira. And I happen to offer a very nice alien discount." A few mercenaries chuckled. To Marcus's relief, so did Mira. He let himself take a drink from his beer.

"You know, I took a job the other day. A very wealthy man wasn't too happy about his partner flaking on some deal or another and wanted him gone, if you follow me," Mira said, her tone casual as ever as though she were talking about the weather. "He had a lot of fancy toys and security to protect him, but they didn't really help him much in the end. Did it, boys?" Loud voices answered her as Mira's Marauders gloated over their recent victory.

Mira continued, "Soon as we emptied out that fancy little estate of his, I found what our little backstabber was keeping from his friend. And let me tell you, it was quite a find."

Marcus realized he was gripping his beer bottle a little too tightly and relaxed his hand. "Pray tell."

Instead of answering, Mira scooted a small stack of black chips towards the center of the table. "I will if you double my bet."

The two players between her and Marcus called, matching the mercenary boss's bet. When it was Marcus's turn, they eyed him carefully. He emptied the last of his beer and pushed in a stack of black chips that was twice as tall as Mira's, sorely hoping Jamie wasn't watching.

The remaining two players folded. Marcus lifted a hand and waved over a server. "Another Fireman's Four," he said. He could practically hear Jamie's voice: _You're betting more than you've got, and you're still buying?_ To be honest, he wasn't sure he'd be betting this much if he were completely sober. Maybe taking those shots with those mercs earlier wasn't such a good idea.

The dealer burned a card by setting it aside, and dealt three cards to the center of the table. As he did, Mira continued, "He was holding onto some tech that belonged to those mouthless freaks. Found it in the Lontimar System of all places. You know, if I didn't have a reputation to keep, I would've liked to keep them for myself. I've got a good friend who would pay double what my client was offering for them."

The pink-haired mercenary paused. Marcus realized he hadn't even looked at the community cards yet. One eight of clubs, one six of diamonds, and one six of clubs. Looks like lady luck was on his side tonight.

They came to the second round of bets. The first two bets started at the big blind, which to Marcus was already quite high. He could already feel his bank account crying out in despair as he matched. Mira, of course, raised the bet by quite a lot. What was in the pot probably seemed like chump change to her, but to Marcus it was a few contracts worth of credits.

Another card was burned, and then the dealer laid down the turn card—king of hearts. It wasn't the card Marcus was hoping for, but there was still one more community card to be played. Not to mention he already had a full house to rely on.

The final bets started. It began with a raise from the big blind. Marcus swallowed down a groan. He matched the raised amount. Mira, of course, brought the bet to a dizzying amount. The last player, after much deliberation, folded with agony painted over his face.

The dealer set aside one last card, and then placed the final river card down. Nine of clubs. He still didn't have anything better than a full house, and the fact that Mira was betting so much made him nervous. Still, he had already put too much in to back down. It was time to put his faith in his hand. The big blind was on him, so it was his turn to bet first. Marcus matched. Mira tripled it. The remaining player sweated, and then finally folded.

It was time for the showdown. Eyes turned to the mercenary. Mira had raised last, so her hand was to be shown first. She reached out and flipped the cards that were by her resting feet.

Seven of clubs and ten of clubs. She had a straight flush. Marcus felt his stomach drop. He flipped his cards to show his beaten full house, mumbling, "Congrats." Yeah, Jamie was going to kill him for sure. He really shouldn't have ordered that extra Fireman's.

"Markie, you know I hate seeing you so downtrodden," Mira said as she placed her feet down to pull the pot towards her. "So how about a deal, then?"

"Deal? What do you want, Mira?"

"I didn't get to finish my story," she said. "Where was I? Ah, so the little backstabber was dead and we had his oh so precious protoss machinery. I was still in the midst of deciding whether I ought to do a little double-crossing myself when we were hit. They moved so fast, they cut through my boys like they were nothing—my Marauders! Then they snatched my machinery and disappeared."

"Who?"

"I asked you if you were cozy with the protoss," Mira said. "I'm not dumb enough to get near Aiur, so I need you to lure some out to where I can get them. Then I'll take care of the rest—your end of the deal will be done."

Marcus couldn't believe what the mercenary was asking him to do. "I… Mira, I'm just a contractor…" He leaned forward. "What do you plan to do with them?"

"You bait out the protoss for me, and you're done. The rest isn't your concern."

Marcus paused. He had a very, very good idea what 'the rest' entailed. Mira had lost her payload to the protoss, and she wasn't happy.

"Markie, it's not a hard decision, is it? Here, let me help you." She took two large stacks of chips that Marcus had bet in and shoved them away. "That will be forgiven if you take my deal."

Marcus glanced over to the counter. Jamie was glaring at him from where he sat. Having to lose that amount of money was crazy. Declining a deal with Mira Han was even crazier. "Mira, darling, you'll get your protoss."

"You're such a sweetheart, Markie. I look forward to working with you."

* * *

 _ **Addendum: And that's when Marcus learned that all that 'heart of the cards' stuff was bullshit.**_


	7. Chapter 7

A wistful sigh summoned Karax from the other room to investigation the source of his wife's woes. He found her sitting at her home terminal, staring at the curved blue screen in front of her. He came up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder. "Still no progress?" he guessed.

"Artanis will be expecting a report any time now," Meren replied, rubbing an eye. "But I am no closer to figuring anything out than I was the day I was thrown into a wall." She scratched the underside of her chin. "Torik told me the cause of his outburst was due to the pain he experienced."

Karax paused. This was the first he'd heard of this. "Did I…?"

"It couldn't have been just pain," Meren debunked. "It was as if his entire _personality_ changed." She groaned, leaning forward onto the desk to cover her face with her hands. "I am not a psychiatrist, Karax. Should I outsource this to the expertise of one instead?"

"Do not be ridiculous, Meren," Karax dismissed gently. "This requires not expertise, but intellect." He took a step back and opened his arms. "And I am confident when I believe no other structure on Aiur houses as much of that as this one!"

Meren watched him, and then rolled her eyes as she looked back at the screen. "I cannot believe I committed myself to the likes of you," she replied playfully. "Nor does my sister. Do you know what she said when I told her the news of our union?"

"What Cenira…? What did she say?"

"I cannot believe after all Artanis, and even the very man you've chosen to take your vows with," Meren quoted, "has done to desegregate us, you still choose to undergo a khalai caste ritual."

"Can she not be called a hypocrite?" Karax said with a shrug.

Meren turned around in her chair to face him. "You should know better, having spent so much time with the Nerazim," she chided. "They view marriage in a much more sacred light. It's not something that more celebrated individuals ignore and leave to the lesser." She turned back to the terminal and began pecking away at the keypad with quick fingers. "Cenira has become more Nerazim than Khalai now. All that remains of her heritage is the color of her skin."

"People change," Karax said. "Some transformations more extreme than others. Isn't that fascinating, Meren? The fluidity of organic life contrasted with the static casing of machinery. Biologic imitation is something I have often tried to carry over into my work. But, ah, the results thus far have not meet my expectations…" He gave the ridge along his chin a ponderous tap.

Meren glanced over at him. "Don't you have some static casing to work on at the facility?"

"But you're still on medical leave!" Karax pointed out.

It was actually the third day Meren had been officially pardoned from work on medical leave, despite her arguments that she was fine and that minor contusions shouldn't have to put her out of commission. It was as though the Khalai believed anyone who was not one of the templar was made of glass.

It was also the third day that Karax had stayed home. It was a small gesture, and though the phase-smith would never admit to why he stayed with complete honesty, Meren was deeply touched. Not since the early days of their marriage had they been together this long in the quiet comfort of their home. But of course, Karax would love to talk about nothing other than phase-smithing. There was a passion behind his words, which was why Meren never objected. She only wondered if she would ever get to say the things she truly wanted to say—like how she no longer wanted Cenira to be the only one out of the two of them with younglings.

But that conversation, once again, would have to be pushed aside for another time. "I may be on medical leave," Meren said with a sigh, "but that will not excuse me from a late report."

"The Hierarch will understand," Karax reassured. "Relax, Meren. It is not as though you are dealing with the Conclave anymore. Besides, Torik is the least of Artanis's worries."

"There is something else?"

"Artanis received a message from the Tal'darim highlord. I did not see it myself, but I do believe it was about one of Alarak's colonies being attacked."

"Is that so?"

"Why the surprise, Meren? The Tal'darim have a talent for making enemies. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

"Karax, you must not speak like that," Meren said, her voice growing terse. "They are still part of us."

"Only by design," Karax said. "Artanis and I witnessed what they call Rak'shir. It is… well, the beliefs they have are like what you would expect from a disturbing work of fiction. And if only they were. There are some things that change, Meren, and then there are things that do not."

 _Some things do not change_ , Meren echoed in her mind. She looked back at the screen. She recalled the force that had struck her on that day—only one with fully developed psionic powers could have done that without lifting a finger. Once there had been someone who walked on Aiur with that terrifying power.

Meren's eyes lowered to the ground as outrageous conclusions sprung into her mind. She needed to reconcile some readings, and to do that she needed records. But that specific profile—that one individual—was highly classified. It was sealed within the archive vaults at the heart of the Hall of the Daelaam.

Her medical leave would have to be cut a little short.

* * *

From watching the port and Aiur grow in the distance, to viewing the stars glide by, Torik kept his eyes fixated on the wide window on the observation deck. Space travel was not new to his people, yet the sights never failed to be awe-inspiring. Well, that, and the fact that if he turned around he would find himself very alone with the executor. Their ship, only slightly smaller than Marcus's Caravan, was supported by a crew of drones.

"Torik."

Well, he was going to have to turn around sooner or later. He did, and met eyes with Ariadis. She was standing at the center of the observation platform. Her eyes were the exact same shade as a Khaydarin crystal. Those gold chains webbed over her face really did make those eyes shine brighter—.

Torik realized the executor had finished a sentence. He also realized he hadn't caught a single word. Where was the Khala when he needed it?

"I have not been entirely honest with you… or the Daelaam," Ariadis continued.

Wait… what?

"I could not tell them. If I did, they would have barred this expedition."

"Executor… we are not about to do something illicit, are we?"

"No. Well…" Ariadis blinked. "I am not sure I would call it illicit, exactly. Had I made a proposition to the Daelaam, they would have surely disagreed—especially the praetor." She turned away, pacing slowly. Her voice suddenly became biting. "But he is a coward."

Torik agreed, but he wasn't keen on broadcasting his disrespect so boldly even if Ellandar was far out of earshot. "Are we not going to the Lontimar system?"

"We will," the executor assured, "but on the way, there is an… anomaly that I would like to stop at and examine first."

"What sort of anomaly?"

"I do not know, but…" Ariadis trailed off, then firmly said, "I do not know. I have my suspicions, and I need to see it with my own eyes."

"I see," Torik said. He turned back to the observation window. "So we find this anomaly, and then go to the Lontimar system?"

"That is the plan."

There was a pause. Torik knew that if it stretched for too long, the executor would leave. But something had been chewing at him. The very thought of bringing it up grated at him, but he felt he could no longer suppress it.

"Executor," he said, his eyes still glued to the window. "Back on Aiur, you told me 'once again, you reach for a goal that is too high above your head.' Were you referencing my desire to become a templar?"

"I am a realist, Torik. I have always been. You cannot be a templar if you cannot even stand. Besides, whether you are or are not one is not a measure of your worth."

"Those words," Torik said, "coming from you mean little."

Her next words came out angrily. "You will address your executor with the proper respect."

How closely she sounded to the praetor just now. They were, after all, members of the Daelaam—one in the same. Suddenly, this trip no longer seemed so appealing. "My apologies, Executor."

He heard a sigh emit from her as she turned away. "This is not how I wanted this to go," she said. "Give me time. We shall try this again."

"Of course, Executor." That was finally his chance to respectfully withdraw from the conversation with Ariadis, and Torik took it in speed. He was off to find some corner of the ship to mope. How pitiful, he noted to himself. But then again, how could he not be so filled with this self-loathing, given who he was?

Torik once again reminded himself that imperfection was not loved by the firstborn. But it wasn't like he was like this by choice.

A drone hovered idly next to him. With the ship set to an automated cruise, this one was not busy. Torik stared at it. It gave a soft beep every now and then.

"Ever heard of music?" he asked it. The drone, devoid of sentience, did not answer.

What was he doing? 'Go do something before you fall deeper into insanity,' he told himself.

Dr. Meren had installed a crystal with logging capabilities into his chair before he had left Aiur. "Often, templar embarking on long expeditions would record their thoughts in these crystals. As they gathered wisdom, they would use them to record it to bring back and share with the rest of the firstborn," she told him. "Even if you do not believe yourself able to fully be one, you're still capable of adopting their habits."

"What wisdom could I possibly embed? What do I know that isn't already known?"

"Your thoughts," Dr. Meren had answered. "Your emotions. Your unique perspective. There is no one like you, Torik. No one who has struggled as you have. You see things as no firstborn has. That is just as valuable as any templar's guidance."

As Torik activated the memory crystal, it glowed a soft blue. He felt the psionic binding creep into his mind. The crystal began mirroring his thoughts, capturing the activity within his mind in a perfect echo.

 _I am Torik of the Firstborn. I am a living enigma—even my name is merely an alias. My true name, the one designated to me at birth, is unknown. Even by me. My memories, as you see them now, are broken and unreliable._

What a somber introduction to his first memory crystal. But what did it matter? Despite what Dr. Meren told him, Torik had doubts that anyone would ever bother to read his memory crystals.

Along with his words, Torik placed the only memories of himself that he could recall. The fragments he retained from the Lontimar system. The feeling of suddenly awakening in a small, compressed space. The walls around him were cold. It was dark.

Suddenly, with a loud hiss, the wall in front of him opened and he had fallen out onto warm rock. He recalled the pain from hitting the uneven ground, the biting of the loose stones into his wet skin. He remembered being confused, dazed, struggling to comprehend his existence and his surroundings. He looked around. It was dim, and the only light was coming from an opening at the far end of… whatever he was in. Some sort of chamber?

Then, as Torik was still fighting to collect his bearings, he had turned to look over his shoulder. There, he saw it—words etched into cold, golden metal.

Inht.

Inht? Something about it didn't seem right.

Then the dazed protoss had dragged himself to the mouth of the chamber, trying his best to ignore the pain of rock scraping against his skin. Wind whistled outside, and the air grew hotter as he neared the light.

His memory danced in fog, and as it cleared, there were loud voices. Terrans. He understood their language, as nearly all protoss had been educated in the Koprulu Sector's active languages. They had noticed him and were alerting one another. Someone shouted to "tranq him." That had been followed with a sharp pain in his back, just below his right shoulder blade. The next thing he knew, an artificially strong feeling of drowsiness had overwhelmed him.

 _I do not know which planet I was on, or why I found myself encased in that small box within the chamber. I pray that this journey will tell me. I am currently aboard Executor Ariadis's ship, the Weaver, as it heads towards the Lontimar system. May Tassadar guide m—._

Just as he was signing off, Torik felt a memory suddenly crash into his mind with uncontrollable force. He had no idea what had prompted it, but all of a sudden his mind was seized with a recollection that was entirely foreign and yet familiar at the same time.

"… a secondary one," someone was saying. It was him. Torik was saying it. "In the Lontimar system. Here." Torik saw his own hand, completely different to the one attached to him now, point. This arm was sturdy, muscular. Its digit was pointing to a holographic map in front of him, trained specifically on one planet it particular. "Its harsh desert climate will drive any of the Armada's scouts away."

"As you wish." The reply came from a woman. Torik looked up into the eyes of the one who had spoken. Torik looked up into green eyes—so, so familiar, and yet he had no idea who they belonged to. Vorazun? No, the woman was Nerazim, but it was not the matriarch.

And that was it. Startled, Torik blinked and the Nerazim woman vanished. He recognized the interior of the Weaver in front of him. Beside him, on the arm of his transport chair, the crystal glowed brightly with its stored memories.

"E-executor?" Torik called out nervously. It seemed Ariadis was too far away to hear him.

 _Tell the executor nothing_. There it was again. _She will only get in the way. All I need from her is a way back to the Lontimar system—to there. The time is fast approaching. No doubt they are aware of that as well._

'Who?' Torik asked, but quickly realized he was only asking himself. And it was up to him to provide an answer, but he couldn't.

It was his turn to sigh wistfully. Turning the transport chair around, Torik hovered down the short corridor. He aimed to explore the Weaver for a while. At least it would busy his mind from these puzzling thoughts.

There was a door at the end of the corridor that he hadn't gone through. Torik paused at the threshold, his eyes scanning the doorframe for any sign to tell him what the room was for. There was none. Well, there was one way to find out. Torik pushed his chair forward.

The door slid open and, as Torik entered, lights that were embedded in the seams of the walls and ceilings were activated upon his entrance. The equipment around the room told him that it was some sort of small laboratory. Against one wall were racks of small vials. Torik didn't recognize the viscous liquid contained within them. His first alarming thought was that maybe they held terrazine. But then he realized that the liquid was clear and not purple. Perhaps they were medication? Supplements? Ariadis was a templar, after all. Maybe they were enhancers for battle. It wasn't like Torik would know.

Just as he was turning to leave the lab, a containment field caught his eye. Immediately he recognized what sat behind the thin, blue force field, and the sight of them filled him with horror.

No… not here. Why were they here?

"Torik?"

He looked back. Ariadis stood in the doorway. "I sense your distress," the executor began.

"Why have you brought them with us?" Torik couldn't stop the panic from permeating his voice.

"Calm yourself, Torik," Ariadis said. "I thought it poor to leave them to rot, given all that was done to make them. Besides, you are protoss—part of a race that values strength above all else. Do you truly wish to scoot around in a chair for the rest of your years?

"You don't understand, Executor," Torik said slowly. "You were not in the phase-smith facility that day. You didn't see what happened."

Ariadis was silent as she surveyed Torik for a moment. "Why do you fear them?" she asked.

 _A good question. Why are you afraid of them?_

Torik lowered his eyes. He couldn't tell her. Shaking his head, he said, "There are things I don't understand—that's what I'm afraid of."

"I think," Ariadis replied, "that if we are to embark on this journey together, then we need to—." The executor stopped her words short when the ship's main terminal pulsed out a psionic signal, alerting the two of them that an incoming transmission was being received.

The executor whirled around and hurried to the deck. Torik followed after her. "A message?" Ariadis muttered in disbelief. "Out here? Who could possibly…?"

They came up onto the observation deck. As Ariadis stepped to the terminal, Torik turned and scanned the windows. A milky beige planet was in view, nothing more than a small marble. Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to look. The holographic screen had been pulled up, and whatever transmission the Weaver had picked up was being played.

The signal was poor, as the image that flickered was barely coherent. Still, the bare features of a protoss face could be made out. Torik could practically see the distress in his eyes.

"… Need of… immediate… utmost urgency…" His voice wavered in and out of their minds. Abruptly, the transmission ended.

"Who is that?" Torik demanded, shaken up by what he had seen.

"I do not know," Ariadis replied, also looking uneasy. She looked around, her eyes quickly skimming over the windows. "No protoss should be out here, and yet…" She turned back to Torik. "At the same time, I am executor. If any of my people are in danger, I cannot ignore them." She paused, and then hesitantly added, "Is that not right, Torik?"

That she was asking Torik such a question shocked him. "That… that is just, Executor."

Ariadis still looked hesitant as she continued to stare at him. Torik couldn't help but realize this was the longest they had held gazes. Then, the executor turned back to the terminal. There, she sent out a responding broadcast.

"Pilot, this is Executor Ariadis. Your message has been received. Relay to me your location and your current situation."

The terminal whirled, and its embedded Khaydarin crystal glowed as responding coordinates were fed into it. From the crystal, Ariadis quickly read them. "The planet," she said, looking out towards it. "But why…?" She relayed another broadcast. "Pilot, I request your current situation."

There was no response—the blurry face did not return. Instead, the coordinates were pinged again like an eerie, voiceless call.

"I do not like this," Ariadis fretted. "I have a premonition this is something we should not investigate alone. We need to circle back and alert the Daelaam." Before she could even put words to action, the Weaver's radar suddenly beeped. Torik watched Ariadis's eyes fly down to it. He felt the fear ripple from her.

"No," the executor said softly. _"No!"_

* * *

Head up. Gait steady. Meren reminded herself that if she gave the air that she belonged there, then the guards would not question her. She hoped none of them knew she was supposed to be on medical leave.

Someone passed her, though Meren wasn't exactly sure if he was a templar guard or someone who simply worked at the Hall. The side-glance she shot him was nervous all the same.

She had told Karax that she had been headed to the bazaar with Cenira. Without the Khala, lying had become startlingly easy. And at the same time, it had still been hard. Having lived most of her life mentally unified with her people, Meren felt guilt weigh in her chest. She reminded herself that this was important—necessary.

The vaults were deep under the Hall of the Daelaam, accessed only by a single elevator, as warping was blocked. Standing by the elevator entrance like a sentinel was an immobile drone. As Meren neared, the crystals in its face glowed, indicating that it was aware of her presence. Quietly, it waited for her to speak.

"Meren, Khalai doctor," she told it. "I request access to the Vault."

"State your purpose."

"I wish to examine a patient's profile."

"Invalid."

Meren thought as much. The vault held information only on those already passed, and the drone was well aware of that. "I need to reconcile certain reports," she said. "The profile I seek to reconcile with is found only in this vault."

"Authorization not approved."

"This is _urgent_ ," Meren said exasperatingly. This drone was starting to irk her.

"Please step away, or a templar guard will be notified."

Well, there was no other way around it. Meren had hoped that maybe she could reason her way past the drone, but this machine apparently didn't understand the concept of 'doctor's orders.' Well… never mind the fact that this was technically beyond her scope of work. Turning away, Meren muttered to the drone, "I really hate you."

"Invalid."


	8. Chapter 8

**_A/N: To be completely honest, the huge gap in updates for this story are because I tend to get bored of it (plus I work on other stories). I do intend to finish this one to its end. I've revisited Legacy of the Void and that's gotten me into the Starcraft mood again. I'll try to get updates out sooner. Thanks for your patience._**

* * *

It took less than a minute after the bait was sent out for the ship to respond. Through holographic map, he watched the protoss vessel's steer begin to tilt towards the planet. An incoming transmission reached the Caravan—an open broadcast from the protoss ship.

"Pilot, this is Executor Ariadis. Your message has been received."

His eyes grew wide at the image. Even he could recognize this one. That made his gut clench. Had it been a stranger, someone he didn't know, maybe he would've been able to sleep that night. But having a familiar face destroyed any chance of that.

Still, Marcus couldn't do anything. He knew Mira would be watching closely—both the protoss ship and him.

The executor was asking for the "protoss" to respond. Shit. Instead of answering, all Marcus could do was press down on the keypad, sending out the coordinates again. He knew that any person with even the smallest degree of sense would have alarm bells ringing.

He could practically see the executor's suspicion. Instead heading towards the planet, the ship hesitated.

Patience, it seems, wasn't Mira's strong suit. At that moment, mercenary ships uncloaked, surrounding the protoss vessel like a cloud. At the first sign of danger, the executor responded. Marcus saw a blue shimmer begin to surround the protoss ship—telltale sign of an initiated warp. But then one of the mercenary ships fired a disrupter. Though it didn't physically strike the vessel, the blue shimmer was immediately cut off. With its warp disabled, the vessel chose to strafe to the side with startling agility. It slipped between the narrow cracks of the mercenary ships.

Marcus tore his eyes away from the holographic map and looked out the windshield just in time to see a missile fly from Mira's ship and hit the protoss vessel's side fin. It was thrown from its carefully designed path and smacked into a mercenary ship. Gold bits drifted off the vessel and twinkled in the light of a far-off star.

Another open broadcast quickly came from the vessel. The executor's face returned to the screen. "I speak to the commander of the terrans—disengage!" Ariadis demanded urgently. "This is Ariadis of the protoss, executor under Hierarch Artanis. I am not your enemy!" As the executor spoke, the protoss vessel reoriented itself and resumed weaving through the ships that struggled to block its path. Just as it was about to reach the edge of the cloud, another missile struck it. Even from where he was, Marcus could tell the executor's ship was in bad shape.

The screen came to life again. "Disengage, I beseech you!" Her voice had dropped its authoritative tone. It almost sounded as though the executor was begging. "There is a civilian aboard! Cease fire!"

"Mira—!" Marcus couldn't stop his outcry.

"Don't worry, Markie," came the sly response. "Those were just a few love taps—just to keep them where I want them. They're much more valuable to me alive."

"This one's an executor," Marcus argued. "A—like a high-ranking one."

"Oh, and should I let her go? Let her return to her high-ranking friends and tattle? Loose lips sink ships, Markie. Besides, rank doesn't matter. They're all just protoss." Then, the mercenary boss added, "You did good. You should see the transfer in your account in a few days after I run the money through a few accounts first. Don't want your reputation soiled by connection with little old me, do you? Don't say I never did anything for you. Now, off you pop." To emphasize her words, Mira abruptly ended the transmission.

Marcus's hands tightened on the armrest. He looked over at saw that one of the mercenary ships had speared the protoss vessel with an anchor. The chain slowly pulled back, dragging the captive vessel with it. "Jay…"

"There's a _civilian_ on board," Jamie said.

"I know. I just—."

"Marc, what did you get us into?"

"I don't know!" Marcus replied. "I didn't think it'd play out like this."

"Oh? And what did you think it would be like?"

Marcus didn't answer. He could only watch the ruined ship get towed in beside the mercenary ship. "We can't let them do this," he said quietly.

"No, we can't," Jamie agreed grimly. "So, Marc, what are we going to do? Betray one of the most dangerous mercenary leaders in the Koprulu Sector?"

"That's absolutely insane. Would we do something like that?"

* * *

Ariadis had never known fear like this before. To be confronted by danger that didn't just threaten her life, but the life of one dependent on her, was a gut-wrenching stab that no armor could protect against. The ship's warp had been disabled, and the closest pylon was light years away.

She looked to Torik. He met her eyes. "Go to the laboratory," she told him. "There is an emergency warp port—we should be close enough to the planet for the port to send you to its surface. Quickly!"

"What about you?"

Had panic not muddled her thoughts, Ariadis might have been touched by Torik's concern. But she was afraid, and that manifested outward as anger. "Listen to what I command of you!" she snapped. "The laboratory!"

"Executor, I have been captured by terran malefactors once before. I know you will not see one shred of kindness from them. I cannot just leave you to—!" A loud roar told the both of them that a connector had been forced into the Weaver. The terrans would be onboard any second now.

With precious seconds left, Ariadis pulsed psionic energy through her templar armor. It flowed through the alloy plating like blood through veins, charging up her shields. She felt the energy bundle in the gauntlet on her arms, collecting as sheathed psi-blades ready to be sprung.

"To the laboratory!" she barked to Torik once more. "Hide!" To her dismay, he resisted yet again.

"But—!"

"You will be nothing but a liability to me should you stay!" Ariadis finally roared, her brow crashing furiously down over her radiant eyes. Torik paused for only another heartbeat before turning his transport chair around. He disappeared quickly through the corridor.

When the terrans stormed aboard, Ariadis was ready for them. The first who stepped onto her ship were given no time to register the blur of flying gold and blue before they were cut down. By the time guns fired, Ariadis had kicked off of the nearest wall to escape their line of fire. Into the nearest terran, she sunk both her blades undeterred through his armor. Quickly she sheathed the blades and caught the terran before he fell. Clutching his ripped armor with both hands, she swung the terran around to shield herself from the next barrage of fire. A forceful shove sent the body crashing into the formation of mercenaries.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ariadis saw another heavy barrel point at her. Just as the first bullets shot from its end in a burst of light, she had dropped to the ground, planting open palms down to catch herself. A psi-blade erupted from her gauntlet as she pushed herself back up towards the terran. The pulsing psi-blade entered his body by his abdomen and sliced upwards through him as Ariadis rose. Finally the blade ripped free right below his neck.

The force from the blade shoved his body back, where he joined a sizeable number of dead. Even then, there were more boarding and Ariadis was struggling to keep up. She felt the pummeling of bullets against her back. The shields kept them from reaching her body, but their punches against her made the protoss stumble. Her shields had already lost a quarter of their power.

She didn't know why they were attacking. With such a formidable fleet size, she figured they had been part of the Dominion. But the terran sovereignty had proved to be allies of the Firstborn, and these terrans were anything but. All she could assume in the midst of adrenaline-pumping action was that this was a renegade faction—a Tal'darim equivalent, so to speak, back before the End War had lessened the chasm between them and the rest of the Firstborn.

Seconds had passed and left more terrans dead with armor torn up like mud underfoot. Her shields were now at less than fifty percent, and the closed space was making it harder to dodge their attacks. But a templar's psi-blades never rested while there was at least one other life worth fighting for.

If this was to be the end, so be it. Her life for Aiur.

When her shields expired, Ariadis expected to rejoin the heroes of old—Adun, Tassadar. Her father.

But the terrans did something unfathomable. They spared her. As soon as the field of blue encasing her exploded into shattered polygons, their guns quieted. Ariadis, exhausted and resolute, stilled to embrace death. When it did not come, she paused with confusion.

And then amidst the terrans, she saw one emerge—this one stood out with her brilliantly colored hair. In an instant, this terran had fired something, and as soon as the projectile stuck onto her, Ariadis felt a pain she had never experienced before. It coursed through her entire body. She lost control over her muscles as they spasmed uncontrollably. With a heavy thud, she hit the ground. Unable to lift her head, she watched the terran's boots as she walked up.

"3,000 volts," the pink-haired woman said. "Enough to incapacitate a bull and, apparently, protoss."

"Boss!" Araidis heard another terran call out. "We found this one further inside the ship!"

"Ah," the woman mused. "So this is the civilian you mentioned." Ariadis felt the ground shake as the mercenary carelessly threw Torik onto the ground next to her. Weakly, he lifted himself up, but a heavy foot crashed down and pinned him to the floor.

"Executor!" Torik cried. "Are you—?"

"Do not worry about me," Ariadis replied in a strained voice.

"What's wrong with 'im, Boss? Where's his legs?"

"Where yours will be if you don't shut up," the woman snapped to the one who had spoken up. "Take them back on board. Make sure they're nice and cozy and ready for interrogation."

"What about this ship?"

"Drag it in tow. I'm sure this thing, even as busted up as it is, will fetch a pretty penny somewhere."

"You heard the boss! Drag these freaks to the deck!"

"You get the one with the legs."

"Fuck that! Joel, you take it!'

"Hell, I got plans for that one for what it did to Jiff and Matt."

"Wait, I think that one's a chick."

"No fucking way. How can you tell?"

"I'm pretty sure."

"What, you a protoss expert now?"

"It's simple—just check for a dick."

"I ain't about to go looking for an alien schlong."

Ariadis and Torik were hauled aboard one of the terran ships, slung over the shoulders of the talking mercenaries. Still unable to move, Ariadis could only watch the terran's feet move below her and listen to the dull, rapid heartbeats. A door opened, and they passed through a threshold. Roughly, Ariadis was dropped down into a small, uncomfortable chair. Her body slumped limply against an armrest and her head lulled down to her chest.

"Stay right here," she heard the terran tell them. "The boss wants to ask you a few questions. Warning you now—don't you get all uppity and protoss-y with her. Remember, she only needs one of you to answer."

"What does she want?" Ariadis asked.

"Oh, you'll find out."

* * *

The room was dark, and the way it reminded him of being confined in that terran cage sent Torik's hearts racing. He glanced over at the executor. She was still affected by whatever they had done to her, as limp and motionless as a corpse. In that moment, Torik sorely wished the Khala still remained so that he could've found comfort in her presence there. He was terrified, helpless.

He was nothing like a templar.

"Executor, are you hurt?" he asked. The question was fruitless, but it was his only attempt at comforting her.

"Why did you not use the emergency warp?" Ariadis's cold tone told Torik that none of his consolation had been received.

He hesitated, remembering what had transpired in the laboratory. When he had entered, Torik had headed for the emergency warp port but stopped short. Something behind him had beckoned and he looked. Those things lurking just behind the containment field…

Suddenly, it had come to him. This was the chance he was waiting for—to prove to him, to Ariadis, and to all of the Firstborn, that he was not a liability. Not a cripple, but a templar.

But upon gazing at them, Torik had found himself seized by fear. Memories of the bay—of what those accursed appendages had turned him into—rushed into him like water flooding a punctured hull. And in that moment his determination swayed.

The next thing he knew, terrans had swarmed the laboratory. They pulled him away from his chair—away from those legs—and brought him back to the deck where the executor lay defeated.

Torik's recollections were interrupted when he heard the door open once again. Heavy soles punched the ground as someone came strolling in. It was the pink-haired terran, likely the leader of these unlawful insurgents. Behind her followed two mercenaries, though they lagged behind the woman.

This terran was… a sight. Torik spotted her artificial eye, and her body was covered thick in explosive devices that rendered her akin to a walking payload. She stopped in front of the two, crossing her arms and observing them quietly.

While Torik was too nervous to react, Ariadis was the first to speak. She could only lift her head as she snarled, "The protoss are not an enemy you should desire."

"Oh, I've got about twelve other big, scary 'higher-ups' after me—what's one more?" the terran dismissed casually. "Don't try to threaten me with your friends. Speaking of enemies, you don't know what kind you made when you stole from me."

"Stole?' Ariadis repeated. "We have thieved nothing from your people. Since the reclamation of Aiur we have only been rebuilding our home world."

"Hmm, and rebuilding takes resources, doesn't it? Machinery? It may have been yours to begin with, but that's beside the point. What matters is what you did to me." The terran uncrossed her arms. "And before you starting denying, have a look at this. Maybe this will refresh your memory." With a wave of her hand, she signaled a projection screen to pop up. Video surveillance was played of terran and protoss forces clashing fiercely in a large facility. The protoss ripped easily through the hardened mercenaries. Among them, Torik spotted both the green and blue psi-blades of Nerazim and Khalai warriors; templars utilizing the powers of the Void to disappear and reappear in flashes of smoke, and high templars casting powerful waves of psionic power from their hands.

Then, shortly, the terran paused the video. "Well?"

"No fleet was authorized to go to terran systems, let alone launch an assault," Ariadis insisted firmly.

"Funny, I must have imagined these ones then—and the casualties I sustained? Fabrications of my mind as well, I suppose."

Torik's eyes were focused on the image that the screen had been paused on. It showed protoss warriors just having broken through a mercenary line. Amidst the chaos and blood, something stood out in the still scene—the one leading the protoss. A Nerazim woman, her emerald eyes cold and almost mechanical.

 _As you wish_. He had seen those eyes before.

"Hazuris." Torik let slip aloud her name. He saw the terran's mismatched eyes fix on him.

"Looks like the cat's out of the bag," she said. It dawned on Torik the gravity of what he had just done. "It's our lucky day, boys. We got one who knows exactly what we want to know, and by the looks of him it won't take much to make him squeal." She commanded one of the mercenaries over with a jerk of her head. He came to her and handed her something—a heavy, metal tool. The woman tapped its end against her palm, each strike weighty and solid. "So, Legless, we can either do this the easy way or the hard way. Your pick."

Torik watched the tool bounce with wide eyes. "Don't," he pleaded.

"Well, you tell me where this Hazuris is and where she took my machinery, and this little thing here will be just for show."

For a fleeting instant, Torik wondered if he could somehow lie his way to safety—feed the terran enough fodder for her to be satisfied and spare the two of them. But at that moment, as he was confronted by the heavy wrench, he found himself unable to spin any sort of lie. "I do not know," he confessed. "I do not know who the Nerazim is or where she resides now. Please—you must believe me!"

"Hard way, then," the terran replied. "Oh dear. You should know this is going to hurt me just as much."

"No—no! This is the truth!" Torik watched the wrench rise like an executioner's axe. "Please!"

Many things happened at once. Instead of swinging the wrench down at Torik, the terran instead lunged back just as a flash of blue lit up the room. Torik saw a psi-blade slice the air in front of him. It moved so fast it looked to him nothing but a blur and left him temporarily blinded.

The terran swung the wrench. Its hefty metal end cracked against Ariadis's skull and forced her to stumble back. In those vulnerable seconds, the mercenary leader had pulled out her high-voltage gun and fired another shot at Ariadis. When it hit the executor, Torik heard her anguished cry echo in his mind. Ariadis convulsed violently as electricity coursed through her body. She fell heavily down onto her knees.

"Put that one down. We don't need her," the terran commanded.

A mercenary came up to the downed executor, raising his rifle to deliver the execution. Just as he pointed the barrel, Ariadis suddenly brought an arm up. Her gauntlet flashed, and the mercenary's gun clattered to the floor along with his severed hand. Ariadis's psi-blade was lodged through his chest before he even had a chance to react. The second mercenary fired, but the bullets, along with his body, smashed against the wall from the powerful psionic pulse Ariadis threw at him. Rising to her feet, the executor grabbed the shock bolt and ripped it free from her body.

As Torik witnessed the awe-inspiring scene, he suddenly felt pain between his eyes as the barrel of a handgun pushed against his skull. He saw Ariadis turn to her last foe and freeze.

"I do love morals," the terran mused. "They make such good weapons. Drop your blades, protoss. No—don't just put them away. Take those things off your arms and drop them to the ground."

Ariadis's gauntlets fell heavily onto the ground. Still weak, the executor stumbled but quickly caught herself.

"That's good. Come in now—she's ready." The door opened and a third mercenary stepped in. "Do stay still—it'll hurt less. And if you think about lashing out again, I can get rid of both of you and always find another one of your people to do this exact same thing with."

The mercenary put a hand on Ariadis's shoulder and forced her down. Her blue eyes switched from the terran to Torik's as the barrel lined against the back of her head.

At the sound of the gunshot, Torik couldn't stop himself from crying out, "Executor!"

But it was not Ariadis who fell. Torik caught sight of a grisly, open exit wound on the mercenary's forehead before he collapsed. Behind where he was stood another terran. No, not just any terran—.

"Marcus!" Torik said in disbelief.

Marcus had his gun trained on the mercenary leader now. "Sorry, Mira," he said. "I gotta crash this party."

The terran, Mira as Marcus had called her, gave the dead mercenary a glance with an apathetic sigh. "Oh Markie," she mused. "Do you make it a habit to disappoint women?"

"In the event this head up here's the one that decides to do the thinking, yes," Marcus replied, tapping his temple. "Mira, I can't let you take these two."

"And why is that? Friends of yours?"

"You could say that."

"Markie." The gun barrel pushed harder against Torik, forcing his head back. "You know I could have you dead any second if I wanted it. Luckily for you, I'm much too fond of having you around." She tilted her head and gave Marcus a look as though she were gazing down at something small and cute. "It's such a shame I'm already a married woman."

"Listen, you don't have to pay me. And I'll help you find the protoss who stole your machinery—these two had nothing to do with it, I swear."

"Help me find them? What makes you think you've got what it takes? You couldn't find a bit of common sense even if it crawled into bed with you."

"Mira, hun, come on now. That was under the belt."

Was this… banter between the two? While Ariadis was fatigued and wounded and Torik himself had a gun's barrel jammed against his head.

"I know where they are, Mira."

"Pull the other one."

"They're on Sh'lera."

At that, Mira cocked an eyebrow. "Sh'lera? Titanium Industries's Sh'lera?"

"Yeah. I can take you there, and then you can deliver your comeuppance. Just don't start an intergalactic war here."

"Oh, but mercenaries thrive during war," Mira said. "Governments like getting their victories, even they're through hired guns. And they're the ones with the money." Still Mira had made her decision and pulled her gun away from Torik.

"So it's a deal?"

"I do enjoy working with you, Markie."

"Alright," Marcus replied airily, almost as though he were holding back a sigh of relief. "Just give me a sec to get these two back on their ship, and then we'll set off. Promise I won't pull a fast one."

"Oh, I know you won't," Mira replied, boredly examining her gun. "Especially not with five of my ships trained on your little Caravan."

"I need that for work, Mira." As Marcus passed the mercenary leader on his way to Torik, she suddenly stopped him with a raised arm.

"No," she said, gripping Marcus's jaw and turning his face towards her. "You work for me now. Be a good boy and try not to forget that." Torik spotted that strange lump in Marcus's throat move up and down. She released him and cast one more glance at Torik before heading towards the door. "Don't keep me waiting." Outside of the dim room, Torik heard her shout, "Someone clean up that mess in there!"

"Come on. Up you get," Marcus said with a grunt as he hoisted Torik onto his shoulder. Under his breath, he muttered, "Man, I've got a weakness for crazy. Not _that_ much crazy." He turned to Ariadis. "Executor, are you—?"

"I am fine," Ariadis insisted as she rose unsteadily onto her feet. Her hand was pressed gingerly over the part of her abdomen where the second shock bolt had struck her. She followed Marcus and Torik as they headed off towards the ship and back onto the damaged Weaver. Torik could see the ship's small crew of drones already buzzing around the interior and exterior, making repairs all around.

A few mercenaries spotted them leaving the ship, though it was apparent that the Mira woman had given them the orders to stand down as they only watched. "They're still alive?" Torik heard one of them mutter to the other.

When they were back aboard the Weaver, Marcus found Torik's abandoned transport chair in the laboratory and placed him back on it. Torik felt it reconnect with his nerve cords. Ariadis lowered herself heavily on a nearby cot.

"How did you manage to negotiate with that degenerate?" Ariadis asked Marcus.

"Careful," Marcus warned with a paranoid glance over his shoulder. "Well, let's just say it's damn lucky that Mira considers me her type."

"And now you are indebted to her," Torik said, remembering the deal they had struck. "A most unfortunate position. Why did you do it?"

"Why do you think?" Ariadis answered instead. She shot a wary look at Marcus. "He aided them in our capture." The guilty look that appeared on Marcus's face was all that was needed to validate her accusation.

"Listen, I—."

"No matter," the executor interrupted, her tone warming just slightly. "You protected Torik where I could not. We are both alive because of you. I say that is more than enough redemption." Ariadis lifted her hand to peek at her abdomen. "We will be fine for now. I think it best if you do not keep that terran mercenary waiting."

Marcus glanced from Ariadis to Torik. "Stay safe out there," he said.

"And you as well, friend Marcus," Torik replied.

When Marcus was gone, the Weaver was detached from the mercenary ship. A protective shield surrounded the broken hull to protect its inhabitants from cold space. Ariadis told Torik that they would need to remain adrift for a while longer until the drones had finished their repairs. A smaller drone in the laboratory was tending to the burn wounds that the shock bolts had inflicted onto Ariadis.

"Executor," Torik said. "I do not wish for you to feel shackled to the need to protect me. I am not a youngling. I have accepted the dangers of our journey as you have."

Ariadis paused. The bay was silent except for the quiet buzzing of the medical drone. Then, Ariadis replied, "I pray you do not adopt an ego akin to that of the praetor's. I am executor, Torik. It is my sworn duty to look after my people however I can." Then, Ariadis added, "I was mistaken to call you a liability." She stood up and pushed the drone in Torik's direction. It drifted towards the crippled protoss and began scanning him for injuries. "I will check on the status of this ship—the sooner we leave this sector, the better."


End file.
